The Guardians(27)

He shakes his head. “Not really. I wasn’t there very long and, as I said, sort of left in a hurry. It was not the highlight of my career.”

“Did you know a deputy named Kenny Taft?”

“Sure, knew ’em all, some better than others. When he got killed I read about it in the newspapers. I was in Gainesville doing narcotics. I remember his photo. Good guy. Why are you curious about him?”

“Right now, Mr. McKnatt, I’m curious about everything. Kenny Taft was the only black deputy working for Pfitzner.”

“Drug thugs don’t care if you’re black or white, especially in a gun battle.”

“You’re right about that. Just curious if you knew him.”

An elderly gent in shorts, black socks, and red sneakers approaches and sets two paper cups of lemonade on our table. McKnatt says, “Well, thank you, Herbie. It’s about time.”

Herbie snaps, “I’ll send you the bill,” and moves on. We sip our drinks and watch the slow-motion shuffleboard.

McKnatt asks, “So, if your boy Miller didn’t kill Russo, who did?”

“I have no idea, and we’ll probably never know. My job is to prove Miller didn’t do it.”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Good luck. If somebody else did it, then he’s had twenty-plus years to run away and hide. Talk about a cold case.”

“Ice cold,” I agree with a smile. “But then all of my cases are like this.”

“And this is all you do? Solve old cases and get people out of prison?”

“That’s it.”

“How many?”

“Eight, in the past ten years.”

“And all eight were innocent?”

“Yes, as innocent as you and me.”

“How many times have you found the real killer?”

“Not all were murders, but in four of the cases we identified the guilty parties.”

“Well, good luck with this one.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.” I move the conversation to sports. He’s a real Gators fan and proud that his basketball team is winning. We touch on the weather, retirement, a bit of politics. McKnatt is not the sharpest guy I’ve met and seems to have little interest in Russo’s murder.

After an hour, I thank him for his time and ask if I can come back. Certainly, he says, eager to have a visitor.

Driving away, I’m struck by the fact that he offered no warning about Seabrook and its shady history. Though he clearly has no affection for Sheriff Pfitzner, he did not offer the slightest hint of corruption.

There is more to his story.





Chapter 14



Two months into a slow start, we get our first break. It comes with a phone call from Carrie Holland Pruitt, and she wants to talk. I leave before dawn on a Sunday morning and drive six hours to Dalton, Georgia, about halfway between Savannah and Kingsport, Tennessee. The truck stop is just off Interstate 75 and it’s one I’ve been to before. I park with a view of the entrance and wait on Frankie Tatum. We chat on the phone and twenty minutes later he parks near me. I watch as he enters the restaurant.

Inside he selects a booth near the rear and orders coffee and a sandwich and opens a newspaper. On the table next to the wall is the usual assortment of condiments and a dispenser with paper napkins. With the newspaper as a shield, he removes the salt and pepper shakers and replaces them with our own versions, cheap stuff from any grocery store. At the bottom of our salt shaker is a recording device. When his sandwich arrives, he sprinkles some salt to make sure there is nothing suspicious. He texts me and says all is well, the place is not that crowded.

At 1:00 p.m., our agreed-upon meeting time, I text Frankie and tell him to eat slow. There is no sign of either Buck’s pickup or Carrie Pruitt’s Honda. I have their color photos in my file and I’ve memorized their Tennessee license plate numbers. At 1:15, I watch the truck slow on the exit ramp and text Frankie. I get out of my SUV, walk into the restaurant, and see Frankie at the counter paying his bill. A waitress is clearing his table and I ask if it’s okay to sit there.

Carrie has brought Buck with her, which is a good sign. She’s obviously told him her backstory and needs his support. He’s a burly guy with thick arms and a graying beard and, I assume wrongly, a short fuse. As soon as they walk in the door, I jump up and wave them over. We make awkward introductions and I motion to the table. I thank her for the meeting and insist that they order lunch. I’m starving myself and ask for eggs and coffee. They order burgers and fries.

Buck stares at me with many doubts. Before I can get to the point he says, “We checked you out online. Guardian Ministries. You a preacher or a lawyer?”

“Both,” I say with a winning smile and then ramble a bit about my background.

He says proudly, “My daddy was a preacher, you know?”

Oh, we know. Four years ago, his daddy retired after thirty years at a small country church far outside of Blountville. I feign interest and we tiptoe around theology lite. I suspect Buck strayed from the faith a long time ago. In spite of his rustic appearance, he has a soft voice and a pleasant manner.

Carrie says, “For a lot of reasons, Mr. Post, I’ve never told Buck much about my past.”

“Please, it’s just Post,” I say. She smiles and I’m once again struck by her pretty eyes and strong features. She’s wearing makeup and has pulled back her blond hair, and in a different life her looks could have opened more promising doors.