Granite county, p.3
Granite County, page 3
His publisher had told Kris to portray himself as a hero because in determining the actual way his father died, he brought down a massive illegal drug operation. Kris felt uncomfortable with that. He believed there were two good guys in this story: friend and fellow reporter Patrick Cannon who had come to Fort Phillips in southwest Georgia to help Kris solve his father’s death, and Marilyn who had dragged Kris from the old Simpson Slacks building that was being used as a cover-up for the drug operation. Kris had been handcuffed to a pipe in the building by Lonnie Jackson who then torched it to kill Kris and destroy evidence. Kris and Marilyn both came close to perishing in the burning building.
Kris wasn’t far into the story and this morning words were coming grudgingly. He realized his mind was still on his proposal to Marilyn and admitted to himself he was nervous about it after the disastrous conclusion to his engagement with Emmy. After Emmy’s deceit, Kris questioned if he could ever again fully trust a woman. And yes, months earlier Marilyn lied in a sense with her heavy makeup, bleached hair, low-cut top and short skirt charade to gain his and other men’s attention. She was finished with that façade and Kris was certain he knew the real Marilyn. Still, he needed affirmation of this major commitment he had just made so he shot off e-mails to his closest friends and confidants.
The replies started coming quickly. Kris got his affirmation, but he also got totally sidetracked from doing any writing. Patrick Cannon, Kris’ dearest friend and Carter’s godfather, was first. He was happy for Kris, and although Patrick had always been an Emmy fan, he realized that chapter in Kris’ life was closed. He had come to know Marilyn in Fort Phillips and spent ten minutes extolling Marilyn’s many virtues, especially in the looks category. Although busy with operating the Fort Phillips Sentinel and becoming an active, important part of the community, Patrick urged Kris to call him if he ever needed for anything, be it the best man at a wedding or solving another deep, dark mystery.
They talked for an hour, and Kris was attempting to get back into a writing mode when he received another call. Dan McKenzie, a college buddy, was calling from his public information job at the Pentagon. Dan had attempted to help Kris track down a rumor about a covert military operation in Fort Phillips but had come up empty because the military operation was a scam and coverup for the illegal drug operation.
They were from drastically different parts of the state; Kris from laidback, rural southwest Georgia and Dan from the touristy colorful timber-covered mountains in the north. But both had a love of sports and writing and had ended up in many of the same English, Journalism and Communications classes at the University of West Georgia.
“I’m happy for you, man,” McKenzie started off. He had a voice which served him well as he met with the media about various goings-on at the Pentagon. “I am truly sorry for what happened with Emmy. I thought the two of you were a perfect match. I don’t know Marilyn but from your e-mail, it sounds as if you have landed on your feet nicely.”
“Thanks. I’ll want you in the wedding. I think it will be small but not sure. We haven’t had the opportunity to talk to her folks in detail about it. I’ve only met them in person twice. I wouldn’t say they are highfalutin’, but they don’t cut any corners.”
“Hey. As long as they are footing the bill, right?”
“Yep. So, what’s going on in D.C.?”
“Same old bullshit. The Republicans are blaming the Democrats for all our problems, and the Democrats are blaming the Republicans for all our problems. No one can get along or compromise, so nothing gets done and everything goes to hell.”
“Is that ever going to change?”
“Maybe when hell freezes over.”
“How is your love life?”
“There is none. No time for it. How’s your book coming?”
“Slowly. Very slowly.”
“I know it’s going to be a best seller. Any thoughts on what your next two will be about?”
“One step at a time, please. Let me finish this one first.”
“Actually, I’m glad you reached out, Kris. Have you gotten the information about Homecoming at West Georgia?”
“I think I did. Haven’t paid it any attention.”
“It’s coming up at the end of this month. I’ve managed to beg my way into a couple of weeks off. I’m coming home, going to spend some time in Granite County and then head to Homecoming. I hear our football team is ranked this season. Why don’t you plan to attend? We could hook up. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
“You’re just wanting to see how many pounds I’ve gained.”
“You gaining weight? I doubt that. I bet you could still go out and play full court basketball for an hour and not be winded. Just like you did in high school. Seriously, it would be great to see you. These three or four phone calls a year just aren’t cutting it.”
“You know, I kind of like that idea of returning to campus. I bet the place has changed. Let me talk to Marilyn. I may want to bring her and the baby.”
“That would be great. I would love to meet them.”
“I’ll work on it. How long has it been since you’ve been home to Granite County?”
“Over a year. I haven’t missed anything, except the high school’s star quarterback being killed in an accident. Slipped on a rock and fell in the river. I haven’t seen him play, but Dad says he was a stud and a good kid. His family is friends with my family. I need to go by and see them when I get home.”
“Sorry to hear that. You know, sometimes, life sucks.”
“You’ve got that right. Listen, I’ve got to run. Give some thought to Homecoming and get back to me.”
The conversation ended. Kris was completely out of the mood to write. He heard Carter cry and walked into the den to see Marilyn picking him up. “Let me change him and then he and I are going out for some fresh air,” Kris offered. Marilyn readily accepted because she needed to run errands including going to the grocery store.
Kris, Marilyn and Carter were living in a small rental with the beach in back and a nice sidewalk in front. After leaving Fort Phillips, Kris initially settled in Apalachicola but relocated to Shrimpers Bay, a small fishing village thirty miles north of Tampa where Marilyn joined him and Carter. With the advance from his book deal and money from his benefactor, the late Carter Floyd from Fort Phillips, Kris had sufficient cash to purchase a home. He had not considered that a priority while wrapping up his responsibilities to the authorities in Fort Phillips, cutting a deal with prosecutors to allow Emmy to have the baby at her parents’ and negotiating the book deal.
Now that he was engaged, Kris realized house-hunting needed to become serious. He did know that he wanted to live on the ocean, and Shrimpers Bay was looking like a good fit. Marilyn had indicated she was agreeable to that. She loved being able to step out the back door, walk a few feet and be on the beach. Plus, she liked seeing Kris in a swimsuit. He wasn’t a hardbody, but he still looked like a hunk. Kris reciprocated the admiration when Marilyn modeled one of the swimsuits she had accumulated over the last few months. She never ventured into the ocean but attracted the glances of male passersby as she stretched out on a beach lounge chair.
Even though the sky was overcast, Kris pulled down the canopy to Carter’s stroller and they headed down the sidewalk. Initially he had been a bit self-conscious strolling the baby in public. However, the people he met had been so pleasant and friendly that he had come to enjoy these quick meet-and-greets on the sidewalk, including everyone from elderly Mrs. Gardener who walked with a cane, to Courtney, the lithe, lanky, cute-as-a-button jogger who was attending the University of South Florida.
Kris was thankful for this town and its people. He had retreated there to escape the horrors of Fort Phillips. The sun, the sand, the rhythmic sound of the Gulf of Mexico, the seafood and the people had provided respite and the opportunity to return his life to a sense of normalcy. He had not made an overt attempt to socialize or become ingrained in the community, but he had not shied away from contact either. Everyone was so nice, especially Sam Wright, the handyman who lived next door on the left and Mrs. Martha Martin who lived on the right. Mrs. Martin kept Kris supplied with pies and other sweets, just as next-door neighbor Alice Hunter had done on Sims Street in Fort Phillips. Only Mrs. Martin wasn’t in Mrs. Hunter’s league as a busybody.
Kris lived in one of four rental units along the street. The property owner allowed Sam to live in one unit in return for being part security guard and part handyman. When a toilet needed fixing or a ceiling fan wasn’t working, you called Sam. He was fast and dependable. He was in Mrs. Martin’s front yard painting her mailbox when Kris and Carter returned from their walk.
“How’s it going Sam?” Kris asked, throwing up his hand as a greeting.
“Not bad. How is young Mr. Carter doing today?” Sam asked as he ran a brush full of black paint over the mailbox. Sam was in his early sixties, about five-eight and two hundred pounds. He walked with a significant limp, the only visible remnant of a serious auto accident ten years earlier.
“He’s fine. I love the smell of salty ocean air. Sometimes I just walk out on the beach and suck it in for an hour or so,” Kris said before taking a deep breath.
“I’m not quite that in love with it, but yeah, it’s nice. How’s that lady friend of yours?” Sam lifted his floppy military green bucket hat to reveal a head of thinning gray hair. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans.
“She’s fine. Out running errands.” There was one thing Kris did not like about Sam. He looked at Marilyn in an unbecoming manner when she was outside alone or with Carter. But Kris readily admitted that Marilyn in a tank top and a pair of short shorts was a remarkable sight.
“How’s the book coming?” Sam asked as he sloppily swished more paint on the mailbox. Kris had volunteered little information to Sam about everything that had occurred in Fort Phillips, but the handyman had taken to the Internet to find out far more than Kris wanted him to know. When Sam asked questions, Kris provided vague answers. One article Sam unearthed covered the three-book contract Kris signed with a major publisher. Sam never failed to ask how the writing was going.
“Making progress,” is all Kris replied. He changed subjects by mentioning the heavy rains that were forecast for the area that evening. The two engaged in more small talk for the five minutes it took the handyman to finish the mailbox. Kris said, “See you later” and went inside, hoping for inspiration about the manuscript with a looming deadline.
Chapter 6
LONG-TIME residents of Granite County could not recall a funeral that attracted the attention and people as that for Adam Carson. Perhaps the time thirty years ago when a fire wiped out an entire family. Their house was on the side of a mountain at the end of a long, ruddy dirt road, and by the time emergency personnel arrived, the fire had taken the house and the father, mother and two young children. Atlanta TV stations came the one hundred miles to report on the tragedy, and the burned shell of the house became an immediate, temporary tourist attraction. Morrow Funeral Home had been sufficient to accommodate the mourners and curious for that sad occasion.
The funeral home didn’t come close to meeting the needs for Adam. Neither did any church in the area nor the high school gymnasium. So, the celebration of Adam’s life was moved to the artificial turf field of 3,000 seat Holcombe Field, home of the Granite High School Giants. The location seemed appropriate since Adam was the team’s best player and was the catalyst for two consecutive region titles and a run to the semifinals of the state championship.
The service went on for almost two hours as teammates, classmates, coaches, teachers and community leaders paid tribute to the young man who left this world far too early. The Giants would dedicate the remainder of their season to Adam. His number 15 jersey would hang in his locker in the fieldhouse. Granite Mountain Bank, Franklin Carson’s employer, would endow a scholarship in Adam’s honor. All the tributes were sweet, funny and poignant but too long. It was almost more than Ginger Carson could bear. At one point she sensed she was about to pass out. Charley Morrow, the funeral director, noticed and brought Ginger a cup of strong black coffee which prevented an interruption in the service.
The Carsons got through the day and tried to return to a normal schedule, as if anyone can actually do that after experiencing such an unimaginable loss. Over the next few days, the string of visitors and baskets of food dwindled, giving the family quiet time. In some ways, this was good; in other ways it was excruciating.
Sheriff Henry Kendrick had to see the family. This visit wasn’t going to be any easier than the first when he had to tell them Adam’s body had been found. He had called ahead, and Ginger was quick to respond when he rang the doorbell. Kendrick spent half his time in a suit and the other half in uniform. Today he was in uniform and carried himself with the same straight posture and precision movements he had learned in the military. His body shape had not changed much in the years since active duty. Firm. Ready for action. His hairstyle had not changed either. Cropped closely to the scalp, so close that a color was impossible to distinguish.
He was glad to be inside. Fall was coming and the air had a chill to it. Ginger offered him a cup of coffee or tea, but he declined. He wanted to get straight to business. The house was eerily silent. It bothered him.
Ginger sat next to her husband. Kendrick was in a side chair across from them and oldest son Tommy sat in a chair near Kendrick. In person, Tommy was a good-looking kid, just as he and Adam appeared in the family portrait above the fireplace. Today, Tommy, like his parents, looked weary and defeated. What Kendrick was about to tell them wasn’t going to help.
“Are you folks holding up all right?” was how Kendrick started the conversation.
“As well as can be expected,” Franklin said. Kendrick knew that wasn’t true. Everything about Ginger said she wasn’t doing as well as can be expected.
Kendrick knew there wasn’t any reason to engage in idle chatter, so he started. “We have the results of the autopsy on Adam back from the state crime lab. Normally it takes weeks or even months to get results back, but I have a friend who works in the lab. He owes me a favor, and got the process expedited.”
No one said anything as they waited for Kendrick to continue.
“There were no illegal drugs in his system or for that matter, no legal prescription drugs. No alcohol either. Clean as a whistle.”
“We knew that,” Ginger quickly said. “Adam didn’t even like to take a Tylenol.”
Kendrick nodded. “There was no indication of heart issues or vascular issues that would cause a stroke. He was a healthy eighteen-year-old boy.” He paused. “Now, for what you are really wanting to know. The cause of death has been ruled as traumatic head injury. He must have hit that rock really hard, hard enough to kill him instantly. He didn’t drown. There was no water in his lungs.”
Ginger buried her head in her husband’s chest. Tommy bolted from his chair and turned his back on everyone. Franklin simply sat with glazed eyes.
“We’re ruling the death an accident. We haven’t uncovered anything to indicate foul play.”
With Ginger’s head still resting on his chest, Franklin managed to speak. “Sheriff, we’ve never said anything about foul play but how can you rule that out so quickly? We still have questions. Like how Adam got to the river and what was he doing there?”
“Perhaps he walked or got a friend to take him.”
“It’s a long walk from here to the river, and why didn’t he just take his car? What you’re suggesting doesn’t make sense,” Ginger said. Tommy was listening to the back and forth silently.
“I don’t know, Mrs. Carson. Sometimes when you’re upset, you don’t think rationally. You do things you normally wouldn’t do. Did Adam have anything going on in his life that could have been bothering him?”
Ginger straightened up, wiped tears from her face with her hands and answered, “Adam was quiet. He didn’t tell us a lot about what was going on, but we do know there were things he was dealing with. Nothing serious enough to get him off his routine. Nothing he couldn’t handle.”
“Do you want to share those things with me?”
Franklin was quick to answer. “Not especially, since it seems you have already made up your mind about what happened.”
Kendrick took a deep breath. “Here’s what is going in our official report. Something was bothering Adam. What that was, we don’t know yet, and may never know. He went to the river to clear his head. People around here do that. They go to the river for a lot of different reasons. Adam went to the river. He had so much on his mind he wasn’t paying attention, slipped on a wet rock - it had been raining - fell and hit his head. Then his body tumbled into the river. I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, but that’s how we see it unless you have something else to tell us.”
“That’s bullshit!” Franklin screamed as he shot from his place on the sofa. “That doesn’t tell us anything! Did you people do any investigation at all on this?”
Tommy had turned back and was looking at his parents and the Sheriff. It seemed as though he wanted to say something but remained quiet.
“There is nothing to investigate. We came to the correct conclusion,” Kendrick said with conviction.
“That’s not enough!” Franklin screamed again as his wife began crying. “Our son is dead, and we still don’t know why. Your theory doesn’t fly with us. Again, we’re not assuming foul play, but can we completely rule that out? By God, one way or the other, there’s more to this story than you’re putting into your official damn report.”
