The Summer House(17)

Behind me, Connie and Manuel have notebooks and pencils in hand, both starting to scribble. She says, “This past Thursday Whitey Klamer, a friend of one of the deceased and a student at Savannah Technical College, came by for what he said was a random visit at about 7:00 a.m. Right. At that hour of the day? Based on what we’ve found in the house, he was probably coming for a drug buy. Nobody answered his knocks, the door was partially open, he went in, saw what he saw, came out and puked, and then called Dispatch. First unit responded, saw the extent of the crime scene, and I was next, along with everybody else on the force, including retirees.”

She squats and points to the hinges, where I note familiar-looking scorch marks and bent metal. “One of the first things I spotted. Look. The Rangers used det cord or some other explosive device to get in. Very quick, very pro.” She stands up and takes a folding knife from her pocket, opens it up, and cuts through the seal blocking the entry. “Give me a hand, will you?”

She drags the door to one side, and I do the best I can with one hand, the other one holding on to my cane, and I think, Good job, Sheriff, putting me in my place and showing us who’s still in charge.

Williams says, “You can bet how much the shit hit the fan when we saw what was in here. My investigators got right to work, and we started canvassing the area.”

I ask, “Did you call for help from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation?”

She scoffs. “The GBI? The vampires? Nope, no thank you.”

Connie says, “Why do you call them vampires?”

The sheriff turns to Connie and Manuel. “Legend has it vampires can only come into your house if you give ’em permission. Same with the GBI. State law says they can only come in to work with local law enforcement if you let them in. Believe me, not many sheriffs in Georgia want that. Not going to happen in my county. Okay, let’s take a look-see.”

We cluster just beyond the entrance. My eyes adjust to the dim light. The first thing I see is an overturned couch. There are yellow and orange triangular evidence markers on the scuffed and worn wooden floor, now stained with blood.

Without notes—which I admire—Williams starts reciting the facts of the crime scene, pointing to different areas in the room.

“This is where we found the first three victims,” she says. “Gordon Tilly, Randall Gleason, and Sally Tisdale. This TV here was still on when their friend stopped by Thursday morning, paused on some kind of shoot-’em video game. Ironic, huh?”

“Yes,” I say. “Very ironic.”

We go farther into the home, and I spot more of the plastic triangles on the floor. The counter in the kitchen area has fingerprint dust residue, and the same is on the wooden walls leading to the stairs going up to the second story.

Williams says, “We recovered from the residence two 9mm pistols, a shotgun, and a .308 hunting rifle, along with scales, plastic bags, and about twenty pounds of marijuana. And before you ask, the pistols had not been recently fired.”

Manuel says, “Were these people known to you?”

The sheriff shrugs. “Some. But from what I heard from my sources and others, they were strictly small-time, not on my top ten. Upstairs?”

To me, the wide stairs look as daunting as the first time I saw a climbing rope, dangling in a gym when I was in seventh grade at PS 19.

“You go first,” I say. “I don’t want to hold you up.”



Six minutes later, I’m at the top of the stairs, with Williams, Connie, and Manuel all pointedly looking away from me, as I feel how warm my face is, the trickle of sweat down my neck and back, and the burning and screaming coming from my insulted left leg. Fingerprint dust is on the doorframes to both bedrooms.

“Thanks,” I say to no one in particular. “Sheriff?”

She takes an audible breath. “Worst scene is in here.”

“Then let’s get it over with.”

We cluster at the entrance to the bedroom while the sheriff goes in, points to a group of evidence triangles on the floor and stains on the floor and against the cracked plaster wall.

“Gina Zachary,” she says. “She was found here, shot in the back of the head. Looks like she was trying to protect her little girl…and, well, that’s her bloodstain over there.”

It’s small and cramped in this bedroom, the smells deeper and fouler. I’m breathing through my mouth.

“The bed,” she says, not bothering to point. Blood spatter is on the wall where the mattress butts up against it. “Stuart Pike. Shot dead here in bed. His name’s on the lease.”

Manuel speaks up. “He was in bed?”

“Yes,” the sheriff says.

“Okay,” Manuel says after a moment.

The sheriff says, “Something wrong?”

“No,” Manuel says. “Seems funny, that’s all. Downstairs the door gets blown open, there’s shooting, running up here, the Rangers are chasing up after them…and he’s still in bed.”

I keep quiet, and so does Connie.

Williams shrugs. “Maybe he was drunk. Or doped up.” She glances at her watch. “One more, right across the way.”

We go into the other bedroom, which has two beds. The air is only slightly better in here.

Williams points to blood spatter on the floor. “Last victim. Lillian Zachary. Older sister of Gina. Looks like she was hiding under the bed when she was dragged out and shot.”