The Whistler (The Whistler #1)(46)

18





When Lyman Gritt arrived at the police station at five on Sunday afternoon, he had a suspicion that something unpleasant was under way. The Chief had never requested a meeting at such a time and he’d been vague about its purpose. He was waiting outside the station, along with his son, Billy Cappel, when Lyman parked his truck. Billy was one of the ten-member Tribal Council and had become a dominant force in the government. As they were exchanging greetings, the chairman of the council, Adam Horn, arrived on his motorcycle. There weren’t many smiles, and as they entered the building Lyman was even more suspicious. The Chief had been calling daily since the accident, and he was obviously not pleased with Gritt’s work. As an appointee, the constable served at the pleasure of the Chief, and the two had never been close. In fact, Lyman distrusted the Chief, as well as his son and Mr. Horn, who was generally held in low regard by most Tappacola.

Elias Cappel had been the Chief for six years and was firmly in control of the tribe. If Billy was his right-hand man, then Horn was the left. The three had effectively outmaneuvered their political enemies and seemed intractable. They smothered dissension and ruled with a tight grip, and no one really objected as long as the casino was full and the dividend checks were flowing.

They gathered in Gritt’s office and he took his spot behind his desk. As he faced the three of them, his chair suddenly felt like a hot seat. The Chief, a man of few words and limited social skills, began with “We want to talk about the investigation into what happened Monday night.”

Horn added, “There seem to be some unanswered questions.”

Lyman nodded along. “Sure,” he said. “What would you like to know?”

“Everything,” the Chief said.

Lyman opened a file, fiddled with some papers, and pulled out a report. He went through the basics of the accident, the vehicles involved, the injuries, the rescue, the death of Mr. Hatch. The file was already two inches thick with reports and photos. The video from the police in Foley, however, was not in the file and not referenced. Gritt smelled trouble with the Chief and was maintaining two files; the official one on his desk, and a secret one outside his office. Because Frog’s video had been handed over to the sheriff, there was an even chance that the Chief might be aware of it. Wisely, Gritt placed it in the official file but kept a copy at home.

“What were they doing here, on our land?” the Chief asked, and his tone left no doubt this was his most important question.

“That, I don’t know yet. I’m supposed to meet with Mr. Michael Geismar tomorrow and learn more. He’s their boss. I’ve asked that question, but so far the answers have been vague.”

“These people investigate judges, right?” Horn asked.

“That’s correct. They are not law enforcement, just investigators, with law degrees.”

“Then what the hell were they doing here?” the Chief demanded. “They have no jurisdiction on our land. They were here, on business I presume, at midnight on a Monday night.”

“I’m digging, Chief, I’m digging, okay? There are a lot of questions and we’re chasing leads.”

“Have you talked to the girl who was driving the car?”

“No. I tried to but her doctors said no. They moved her to Tallahassee yesterday, and I’ll go there in a day or two and see what she has to say.”

Billy said, “You should’ve already talked to her.”

Lyman bristled but kept his cool. “As I said, her doctors would not allow it.” Tension was rising by the minute and it was becoming clearer, at least to Lyman, that the meeting would probably not end well.

“Have you talked to outsiders?” Horn asked.

“Of course. It’s part of the investigation.”

“Who?”

“Well, let’s see. I’ve had several conversations with a Mr. Geismar. I’ve asked him twice what they were doing here and he was vague. I’ve spoken with her doctors, got nowhere. Both insurance companies have sent adjusters here to check on the vehicles, and I talked to them. And so on. I can’t remember everyone I’ve talked to. Part of my job is dealing with outsiders.”

“Do you know any more about the stolen truck?” the Chief asked.

“Nothing new,” Gritt said, then repeated the basics without mentioning the video from Foley.

“And no idea who was driving it?” the Chief asked.

“Not until this morning.”

The three seemed to stiffen. “Go on,” the Chief grunted.

“Sheriff Pickett stopped by late Friday for a coffee. You know Frog Freeman’s store north of Sterling? Well, Frog was open late on Monday, not really open, but then not closed either, and a customer came in looking for ice. Frog’s been robbed, so he’s got cameras. Wanna see?”

The three nodded grimly. Lyman tapped some keys on his desktop and turned it around. The video appeared. The truck was parked in front of the store; the driver got out; the passenger held a bloody cloth to his nose; the driver disappeared into the store and returned a short time later; they drove off.

“And what does this prove?” the Chief asked.

“Nothing, but it’s somewhat suspicious, given the time and location and the fact that there’s virtually no one on the road at that hour.”