The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(35)

Hugo’s body was taken to the tribe’s medical facility and placed in a frigid room in the basement where an occasional body was held. Across the street, the constable, Lyman Gritt, sat at his desk and stared at a small collection of Hugo’s things—keys on a ring, folded dollar bills, some change, and a wallet. A sergeant sat on the other side of the desk, equally as mum. Neither volunteered to make the phone call.

The constable finally opened the wallet and removed one of Hugo’s business cards. He went online and found BJC’s website and tracked down Michael Geismar. “He should make the phone call, right?” asked the constable. “After all, he knows Mr. Hatch, and probably knows his family.”

“Good idea,” said the sergeant.

At 2:20, Michael answered the phone and was met with “I’m so sorry to call, but I believe you work with Mr. Hugo Hatch. I’m the constable for the Tappacola tribe, over in Brunswick County.”

Michael stumbled to his feet as his wife turned on a light. “Yes! What’s happened?”

“There’s been an accident, a bad car wreck, and Mr. Hatch has been killed. Someone needs to notify his family.”

“What? Are you serious? No, you can’t be serious. Who is this?”

“My name is Constable Lyman Gritt, sir, the chief law enforcement officer for the tribe. I assure you I’m serious. The accident happened on our reservation about two hours ago. The young lady, Lacy Stoltz, has been taken to the hospital in Panama City.”

“I don’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Does he have a family?”

“Does he have a family? Yes, Mr. Gritt, he has a family, a pretty young wife and four small children. Yes, a family. This is unreal.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Can you notify them?”

“Me? Why me? This can’t be happening. How do I know this is not some prank or something?”

“Sir, you can go to our website and check me out. You can call the hospital in Panama City. The lady should be there by now. But I promise you this terrible news is real, and it won’t be long before some news reporter finds out and calls the family.”

“Okay, okay. Just let me think for a second.”

“Take your time, sir.”

“And Lacy is okay?”

“I don’t know, sir. She’s injured but she’s alive.”

“Okay. Sure, I’ll drive over now. Give me your phone number just in case.”

“Certainly, sir, and if we can help in any way, please call.”

“Sure. And thanks. I know this can’t be easy.”

“No, sir. It is not. A question, sir. Were they working on our reservation last night?”

“Yes, they were. They certainly were.”

“May I ask why? I am the constable.”

“I’m sorry, maybe later.”

—

Geismar stayed with Verna Hatch and the children until her mother arrived, then fled the house as quickly as possible. He would forever live with the horror, the shock, the agony, the sheer madness of the family hearing the news that Hugo would not be coming home, and then trying to convince each other that it simply could not be true. At times he was the villain, the hated messenger unduly burdened with the task of convincing them that Hugo was in fact dead.

He had never experienced such raw, emotional devastation, nor would he ever again endure such a nightmare. He caught himself weeping as he left Tallahassee in the predawn hours. He arrived in Panama City just after 6:00 a.m.





13





Lacy was stable but still unconscious. The initial diagnosis included a gash to the left side of her head that required twenty-four stitches, a concussion that was causing swelling of the brain, abrasions on her face, the result of the violent sliding contact with the air bag, and small cuts on her neck, left shoulder, left elbow, hand, and knee. Her head was shaved and her doctors decided to keep her in an induced coma for at least twenty-four hours. One of them explained to Geismar that it would be a day or two before they could assess further damage, but he saw nothing, so far, that could be considered life threatening.

Her mother, Ann Stoltz, arrived from Clearwater at 8:00 a.m., along with Ann’s sister, Trudy, and her husband, Ronald. They huddled with Michael, who passed along all the information he had, which wasn’t much.

Once they were settled, Michael left and drove to the reservation. He waited half an hour at the police station until Lyman Gritt arrived for work. The constable explained that they were still investigating the accident but this much was known: The collision obviously happened when the truck crossed the center line and struck the Prius. The truck was stolen and was registered to a man in Alabama. No sign of the driver, but it appeared as though he had been drinking. No one saw him leave the scene and they had found no trace of him. The passenger’s side air bag did not deploy and Mr. Hatch was not wearing a seat belt. His injuries were substantial, he had an obvious head injury, and he appeared to have bled to death. “Would you like to see the photographs?”

“Maybe later.”

“Would you like to see the vehicles?”

“Yes, I would,” Michael replied.

“Okay, we’ll do that and I’ll take you to the scene.”

“There seem to be quite a few unanswered questions.”