The Price of Beauty in Strawberry Land (21 page)

Back in Leroy’s cruiser, we headed hurriedly back to Humboldt.

“Where we going?” I asked.

“St. Mary’s Hospital.
 
Dr. Barker is the resident coroner – we’ve called him and he should be available when the body gets there.
 
I want identification quickly and a cause of death when he can.”
 

I stayed in the background and let Leroy and his teams do their work.

If this was Charlotte, and my guess is that it was, there was some real irony.
 
St. Mary’s Hospital is located directly behind Bailey Park – not more than 500 yards from where they found Charlotte’s car on Saturday.
 
She could now be in the basement, lying on a cold metal table in a morgue, only yards from where she was last known to be alive.
 
A shame, an irony and a tragedy.

I was sitting outside to avoid the congestion and the circus going on downstairs. Eventually, Deputy Scotty Perry joined me – he said he needed a smoke.

“Carson, sorry about being abrupt out at the lake.
 
I had to help get the girl out of the boat and into the ambulance – it was upsetting.
 
I hope you understand.”

“I do understand and no apology is necessary. That is a thankless job that nobody wants but somebody must do – I admire you for your courage.”
 
I was serious.

As we were talking, Deputy Jeff Cole joined us.
 
He said to us both, “They’ve called Mrs. Turner - I’m not sure I want to be around when she gets here.”

“They haven’t made an identification yet, have they?” I asked.

“No, but they’ve found a birthmark and a couple of moles that a parent would know about.
 
With nobody else reported missing, I would be surprised if that isn’t Charlotte Luckey,”
 
Jeff was almost in tears.

“Did you know her well?” I asked.

“Sure – everybody knew Charlotte.
 
Scotty and I practically went to school with her – she was younger, but everybody knew or wanted to know Charlotte.
 
This is a tragedy for our little community, and none of us will rest until we find the bastard or bastards that did this.” You could hear his anger.

I saw a FBI vehicle enter the parking area and two agents exit the car and enter the building.

Scotty spoke when he saw their vehicle. “Well, I guess we can go chase speeders now, the Calvary has arrived.
 
We’ll be fetching coffee and making phone calls – the FBI doesn’t cooperate or share information with anybody.”

“I know – but remember my hands aren’t tied like Leroy’s.
 
I don’t intend to follow them around, they don’t have any jurisdiction over me.”
 
I was trying to give them a different point of view.

“No Carson, when you get in their way, they will just lock your ass up – that’s all,” Jeff replied.

“Maybe.
 
But until they do, I’m freelance – okay?”

“Let us know if we can help – we both mean that and I’m sure Leroy does too,” Scotty replied.

“Did you find anything at the lake?”

Jeff spoke. “Yes we did.
 
The body was dropped into the lake somewhere on the southeast side – we believe.
 
There is a dirt farm road that travels right up the lake – it’s a teenage parking area – you know where kids go to park, drink and act older than they are.
 
We never go out there – actually it’s really in Crockett County, but they never hassle the kids there either.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“The body was weighted with two bricks, which any idiot should know wouldn’t hold it down for long.
 
You can add that to your notes - body dumping wasn’t a highlight on their resume.”

“Good information.” It really was.

“We also found some good tire prints.
 
But who knows from who or when.
 
They have made some plaster molds and we’ll have them tomorrow.
 
However, without some match, that tells us absolutely nothing.
 
I’m afraid we don’t have much – everybody we talked to saw nothing or knows nothing.
 
But don’t forget, we now have the FBI – I’m sure they will have this solved before daylight.”

“Jeff, don’t get discouraged.
 
Let me give you a suggestion – when you get those tire molds, compare them to Charlotte’s T-Bird.
 
I’m betting you will find a match. If not, you should get Memphis to check that Chrysler you ran the plates on and any other vehicle you can link to Mickey Campbell.
 
If that doesn’t work, I would check the limo service Phillip Chaney uses.
 
I’m sure the FBI will be checking on vehicles owned by Billy Vickers, Lee Stevens and Coach James Gannon – let them do that.
 
But I think you’ll trump them with your first search.”

“Wow, Carson, good idea.
 
Have you discussed all this with Leroy?” Scotty asked.

 
“Not yet, but I will.
 
I also need you to do another thing. You game?’

“Sure. What is it?” Jeff asked.

“I need you to check on a Denny ‘Dude’ Smith.
 
A resident of Olive Branch, Mississippi – I think.
 
He is the half-brother of Phillip Chaney.
 
Leroy has met him, but I don’t think he got his full story.
 
I have a hunch he might be staying somewhere local – a rental or a hotel.
 
Check him out and let me and Leroy know what you find.”

Jeff spoke, “Thanks, Carson.
 
Being busy and contributing is the best medicine for something like this.
 
Just keep us straight with Leroy and we’ll do whatever we can to put this bastard in the electric chair.”

“One more thing – according to Phillip Chaney – Charlotte called him at the Holiday Inn sometime late Friday night.
 
I need to know what time and from where that call was made – if it really happened.
 
Can you do that too?”

“No problem – we’ll have that information tonight or tomorrow.
 
Anything else?”

“Yes, can one of you give me a ride back to Chiefs?”

I saw Loretta Turner pulling into the parking lot as Jeff and I were leaving.
 
Like them, I was glad I would not be around for what happened next.

~

N
ickie brought me a drink and knew something was wrong.

“You okay, Mr. Detective?
 
You seem troubled this afternoon.”

“I am – but not sure for what reason.”
 
She didn’t understand that reply.

“Drink up.
 
An empty glass will absorb your troubles.
 
I run a bar – remember?”

“That’s not it Nickie.
 
You’ll hear about it later, but I think they have found that beauty queen, Charlotte Luckey dead.
 
I’m obviously upset from that,
 
but I’m more troubled by who the killer may be.”

 
“Tell me Carson, I’ll listen,” she was sincere.

“I just cannot accept the fact that a father could murder a daughter – at least not a murder like I just saw evidence of.
 
All things will, and do, point to him.
 
 
I think he is guilty of many things – but I don’t think murder is one of them.”

“Why do you/they/whoever think it is him?”

“They just will – trust me.
 
It’s the easy answer, but I think the wrong one.”

“Okay, Carson – drink up, day is still here and the night hasn’t started yet.
 
Would you like something to eat?”

“No, but did you save me the paper?”

“Yep – here it is,” she said handing me a well used newspaper.

The headline read:

The article explained that the Memphis District Attorney had summoned a grand jury to investigate charges of illegal activities in the Memphis Mayor’s office and in the Memphis Police Department.
 
It went on to explain that future charges might be forthcoming with the Shelby County Sheriff’s Department and other law enforcement operations.

Side articles contained photos of the mayor, ex-mayor, police chief and Shelby County Sheriff – all had responded with ‘no comment’ to the questions from reporters.
 
I felt sure they were very busy ‘lawyering-up’ before having to speak to a grand jury.

Another related article mentioned the re-opening of the investigation into the death of Barry Lassiter and contained his picture along with his wife, Darlene.

I found no mention of Steve Carrollton or any of the Memphis Mafia in any of the news copy.

~

F
rom the outside phone I called Larry Parker and actually reached him in his office. He told me basically the same things I had read, except that Federal Marshals had brought Steve Carrollton from the Turney Center Prison back to a local jail for questioning.
 
He also said that Bubba and Bobby had not been located and that it would be best to extend my fishing trip until I heard something different.

Then I called Monica at the New Orleans number she had provided.
 
I wasn’t sure she had seen this on the news and certainly would not have read the Commercial Appeal.
 
However, she and Rita had already talked and it seemed their communications were keeping her updated.
 
Monica would remain in New Orleans until we both decided it would be okay for her to return to Memphis.

 
~

 
B
ack inside the restaurant I summoned Nickie over to my barstool.

She spoke first, “Look Carson, it’s just too early for you to keep soaking up that Jack and Coke.
 
Let me fix you something to eat – okay?”

“Sure – get me one of Ronnie’s burgers, well done.
 
And tell me – how can I reach your cousin?
 
The one that runs the airport?”

“You mean Ted Blaylock?
 
Let me call his wife and see if he is still at the airport. You could see him there or he could stop by here.
 
Is he a suspect too?”

“No, no, he isn’t a suspect.
 
I just need to ask him some technical questions.
 
If he is still at the airport, I’ll drive out and see him there.”

Nickie made a phone call and then returned along with my burger. “He’s still at his hanger office.
 
Said he would be there for another hour or so.
 
I told him you were coming out.”

“Thanks. I’ll stuff this burger down and go see him.”

“Carson, you should eat better – hamburgers for every meal isn’t healthy,” she was being motherly.

“I know.
 
Hey, do you like canned butter beans?” I asked with a big grin.

“Huh?” Nickie frowned.

“Never mind, let’s just have a burger for now,” I nodded as she walked away.

Pieces to the Puzzle

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I
guessed Ted Blaylock to be in his mid 40’s - just about right for a World War II pilot – which he was.
 
Slender, balding and a significant presence of intelligence in his manner and speech.
 
Air Force Captains were a well-respected group – Ted Blaylock fit that model.

He greeted me at the hanger door. “Hello, Mr. Reno.
 
So very nice to meet you – I have heard so much about you from Nickie, I feel I know you already.”

“Please call me Carson, and it’s nice of you to take the time to see me.
 
Hopefully, Nickie has been kind with her words.
 
We’ve been friends for a long time and do kid around a lot.”

“She speaks very highly of you and I’m flattered you are seeking information from me – although I have no idea how I can help.
 
And don’t be concerned about my time – this isn’t exactly the busiest airport in West Tennessee,” he wanted to be helpful.

“I understand you were very busy last weekend.
 
I attended that party and noticed various aircraft coming and going most of the afternoon and evening."

“That is the busiest this airport has ever been and probably will ever be.
 
I think I handled about 15 aircraft over the two day period – landing fees, fuel, hanger rent – it was good for this airport.
 
Is that what you are here to ask me about?”

“Sorta.
 
I’m interested in an Cessna 172 Skyhawk you handled during that weekend.” I asked.

He referred to a clipboard with forms and receipts but seemed to know most of the information without his notes. “Yes sir.
 
Owned and flown by a Mr. Phillip Chaney of Memphis, Tennessee.
 
Landed at 17:30 Friday evening and departed 14:45 Saturday afternoon.
 
He purchased 80 gallons aviation fuel and paid for 24 hour outside storage and landing fees - all with cash.
 
You need to see the receipts?”

“No, I am mainly interested in his arrival and departure times and if he had made any special requests.”

“No sir.
 
But he returned on the following Monday – landing at approximately 18:00.
 
I can only estimate because I had already closed for the day.
 
He was close to our time limit of landing without lights, I do know that.”

“How does that work? I mean when you aren’t here?”
 
I asked.

“It’s an honor system – really.
 
When they land they complete forms we provide and then deposit them in a message box located in my office door.
 
I mean, someone could land and then leave and we would never know – but I expect that rarely happens.
 
In this case, he completed the forms and I eventually saw him the next day - Tuesday.
 
He took off at 15:40 and returned at 16:45.
 
He purchased fuel and departed this morning at 09:30 – again paying me in cash.”

“Tell me about flight log books and how they work?” I asked.

“Pilots are required to keep log books logging hours, routes, landings etc.
 
Most are not required to file pre-flight plans, so these books are really 'after the fact’ – if you know what I mean.”

“Your meaning is that pilots might just simply forget to log flights or log incorrect information?”

“When that happens it is usually intentional.
 
Pilots want to make sure they are credited with flying time.
 
The pilot might ‘forget’, but only when they have made some trip they wanted no one to know about.
 
However, there is one thing they wouldn’t forget.”

“And what’s that Ted?”

“To log the plane’s hours.
 
That is critical for scheduled maintenance.
 
Any pilot who gets in a cockpit wants to know that the plane’s hours are properly documented and any required or scheduled service has been performed.
 
Not to properly record flight hours, along with take-off and landings, would just be plain stupid and unhealthy.”

This was good information. “Would that log be kept with the plane?”
 
I asked.

“Yes sir, it would.”

 
“Ted, I need a favor. Phillip Chaney will be flying that plane back here within the next couple of days – probably tomorrow.
 
I would like to know what kind of hours it’s logged over the past several months.
 
I looking for unusual trips – not the short hops, but significant distances.
 
Can you do that?”

“I can surely try.
 
Should I call you at Nickie’s place if I get any information?”

“Yes, please do,” I nodded and smiled.

We shook hands and I pointed the Ford toward Jackson.
 
I had another visit to make before calling it a day.

On Highway 45 at the Gibson/Madison County line I found the
‘My Place’ Bar and Grill
– owned and operated by former Coach James ‘Jimmy’ Gannon.
 
The High School Football Coach who had been involved with Charlotte Luckey.
 
It wasn’t much to look at – outside or inside.

I grabbed a stool at the bar, ordered a Budweiser and checked out the scenery.
 
I didn’t recognize anyone, so I figured I wasn’t going to run afoul of any of Mickey Campbell’s men.
 
Leroy hadn’t told me whether they had picked Mickey up yet, but I expected that to happen real soon.

An oversized, unshaven bartender delivered my Budweiser and I said, “I’m looking for James Gannon.”

He responded, “Congratulations.” And walked off.

That was an odd response - so maybe I needed to rephrase my words.

“I said I’m looking for James Gannon.
 
Do you know where I might find him?” I yelled at this idiot.

He walked back to me, leaned across the bar and said, “Mister, I heard you the first time, and if I had intended to respond to your comment or question, I would have done so,” he turned and waited on another customer.

His comment told me what I wanted to know – I was talking to Coach James Gannon.
 
Usually - oversized, unshaven bartenders are not known for proper speech.
 
This oversized and unshaven bartender had some education – although he really didn’t want it to show.

The jukebox was not too loud and I could tell from the set-up and marquee that live entertainment would be performing at
‘My Place’
this evening.
 

I got his attention and motioned him back over.
 
“You ready for another beer?” he asked.

“Sure.
 
And Coach Gannon I would like a few minutes of your time, if possible.”

“Who are you and why are you here?”

“My name is Carson Reno.
 
I’m originally from Humboldt, but now work as a private detective in Memphis.
 
I’m working with the Gibson County sheriff and FBI to try and locate a missing person – Miss Charlotte Luckey.
 
You know her?”

“Oh shit.” Was all he could say.

“Look, I’m here to help – if possible.
 
You and I both know that within a few hours the police are going to walk through that door and ask you a lot of embarrassing questions.
 
Maybe I can diffuse some of that if you talk with me.”

 
“I don’t have anything to say, and if I did – why say it twice.
 
They are coming whether I talk with you or not – right?”
 
He had a point.

“Okay, Coach, let me try this a different way. They are going to ask you if you have any knowledge of her whereabouts – you save that answer for them.
 
I want to know if you have had any recent conversation or contact with her father, Travis Luckey?”

“I threw him out of here last Saturday night.
 
He ran up a tab with one of the waitresses, then couldn’t pay his bill.
 
He’s a bum - Mr. whatever you said your name was.
 
He’s always been a bum.
 
If anybody knows where Charlotte is, it would probably be him.”

“The name is Carson Reno, and why do you think he would know?”

“Because Charlotte is the only person in the world that cares whether he’s alive or dead – that’s a fact Mr. Reno.”