McDonald Lies, Lies and Apple Pies

1. Auflage 2019
ISBN: 978-1-5439-8957-1
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 202 Seiten

This is a book about a small town in West Virginia whose local preacher is killed and hung from the church's tree. It raises a lot of questions as to why and who did it. As the town searches for answers they find more questions, some of which should remain unasked. The soul of the town is opened for all to see. The local sheriff gets deeply involved.

Autoren/Hrsg.

McDonald, Patrick

Leseproben

CHAPTER 2 (The Discovery) The next morning, the crisp air was thick with moisture. A few more degrees colder, and it would snow. Frank Hawkins pulled his gray Ford Focus into the church parking lot at 8:08 a.m. A few minutes early, he wanted to practice his solo before anyone arrived. Getting out of his car, he slid the key into the slot to lock it when he looked up and saw a foot hanging down through some branches. His gaze traveled upward until he saw it was a man, nearly naked, his chin resting against his chest. At first, the choir director thought it was a mannequin, then he saw the blood directly under the figure. “My God! It’s the preacher!” The police and the village ambulance arrived within fifteen minutes. Sergeant Scott Adkins, the on-duty officer when the call came in, pulled up first in his dark blue Ford Victoria. As he stepped out of his squad car, he saw the preacher’s naked leg dangling in midair. “Damn,” he muttered. “He’s hanging like a piñata.” Sergeant Adkins’ superior, Chief Robert Bentley, led the small police force and was out of town for his birthday. He and his wife, Dorothy, were at Hilton Head, North Carolina, enjoying themselves at a condo owned by a friend. As the Chief of Police of a small town, he enjoyed a modest salary, a decent health plan, a livable retirement program, and, best of all, the ability to escape for a few days at a time when he had the mood. Crime in Pleasant Valley was like sex at a convent—seldom and modest. Bentley’s cell phone’s chirping ring was loud, sharp, and annoying. The caller ID revealed the special number for Sergeant Adkins, the officer in charge while Bentley was away. “Chief, you’ve got to come back,” Sergeant Adkins said. “We’ve had a murder. Reverend Eddie’s dead.” “What?” Chief Bentley adjusted the phone in his hand. “The Reverend? What happened?” “Don’t know yet. He’s hanging by rope in the church’s tree in his skivvies. We’re getting the volunteer fire department out to bring him down.” “When did it happen?” The sergeant paused, considering. “Sometime last night. He was discovered about an hour ago, around eight o’clock.” “When did you get the call?” “About ten minutes after eight.” “And why did it take you an hour to call me?” “I didn’t believe it at first. Then I wanted to see it with my own eyes. I didn’t want to bother you until it was verified.” “OK. I understand. Call off the volunteers. They could screw up the crime scene. I’ll be there in two hours, assuming I can get a charter at the Hilton Head Island Airport. Secure the area and leave him in the tree.” “Sir, this has spread like wildfire. At first, there were a few lookers, then church members arrived for services, and now we’ve got about two hundred gawkers. Someone called the TV station. I don’t know if I can wait two or three hours to take him down.” “Make busy. Extend the police line; situate the hook and ladder truck to block the view. No one touches that body until I’m back.” “Sir, I’ll do my best. He’s naked up there, and the killer cut off his fingers.” Feeling frustrated but calm, the Chief said, “Scott, just rope it off and extend the crime scene. Make sure no one touches that body until I get there. I’ll be in touch in twenty minutes to let you know which local airport I’m using. Have a cruiser waiting.” “Yes Sir.” The Chief, hanging up, scratched his chin nervously. Who would want to kill such an obnoxious do-gooder? “Dorothy, Honey,” he said. “We’ve got a problem, an emergency back home. It’s not our kids. It’s work-related. The Reverend Eddie Foxx done got himself killed. I must go back right now. I have to go to the island airport and see if I can get a charter to Huntington or Charleston.” His wife sat on the bed with one hand pressed against her mouth. “Who’d want to kill Reverend Eddie?” “A whole lot of people. That’s what I have to find out.” She knew he was duty bound and nodded. “You go. I understand. If necessary, I can drive back later today. Why did he have to get himself killed on your birthday?” “Don’t know, but you’ll have to drive me to the airport next to the National Wildlife Refuge. It’s big enough that I should be able to find a charter. It’s a damn shame this is Sunday. That’ll make it harder.” Dorothy drove him the eight miles to the little airport on the far northeastern part of the island. As she pulled up to the civil aviation area, she asked, “Want me to wait in case you have to go to Savannah to get out of here?” “Good idea. Just double park here. If anyone hassles you, tell them it’s a police emergency. I’ll call from the charter area and let you know if I have a plane.” He leaned over for a good-bye kiss that was a little more passionate than usual. Her cell phone rang less than ten minutes later. “I’ll be in Pleasant Valley in about two hours. You wouldn’t believe what this will cost. I used the Village’s credit card. I hope they have a high limit. There goes our bonus for the year.” It was five hundred and thirty-two miles direct, but the King Air 100 couldn’t take that route. At a top speed of 296 mph, It circled around Charlotte because of the hub traffic from commercial airlines. (The King usually cruised at 270 mph). The Chief called Scott from the plane to make sure Corporal Jenkins would be waiting to pick him up at the Ona Airpark, west of Milton, at 11:45 a.m. The trip was uneventful until they arrived. The twin UACL Pratt & Whitney PT6A.28 reverse-flow free-spool turboprop engines performed to specifications. At first the pilot lined up with the runway, then he did a fly-by, muttering into his mike as if saying a Hail Mary. The runway was charted at 3,154 feet, and the King Air needed almost all of that, normally landing in 2,700 feet, but there was a tricky crosswind and that 400-foot safety margin would be eaten up in less than three seconds. The pilot, making a large, sweeping turn, leveled out at eighty feet above the valley floor, aimed at the runway. The wheels touched down at 300 feet with a screech of rubber hitting cement. In two seconds, the pilot reversed engines. With a roar and a jerk, the plane ground to a halt 225 feet short of the runway’s end at 11:48 a.m. With a smile, the pilot turned toward the small building that served as airport headquarters and taxied closer. The Chief, his stomach in his throat, deplaned and headed for the Village’s police car parked nearby with its lights blinking red and blue. He nodded to the pilot. “Great job.” He ran toward the car at two hours and eighteen minutes since Sergeant Adkins’ call. Feeling the vehicle’s four wheels on the ground, accompanied by the flashing lights and siren wail, helped the Chief relax. He would be back in Pleasant Valley in twenty minutes and hoped the men had waited. The streets of the village were deserted. There was no traffic until they turned the corner to Jackie Lane, where a crowd stretched for a quarter mile. Cars were parked randomly, and people milled in large groups like flocks of crows picking a harvested cornfield. Corporal Jenkins, nosing the cruiser ahead through the throng, drove as necessary on the sidewalk, street, and grass to reach the church. At two hundred yards from the crime scene, the crowd thinned out, and a barrier of yellow crime-scene tape separated the regular citizens from the civil servants. Chief Bentley and Corporal Jenkins stopped forty feet from the tree. A cherry picker was directly in front of it, obscuring their view, while a photographer stood in the basket, taking pictures. “Who’s that?” the Chief asked as he jumped out of the patrol car. Sergeant Adkins answered just a little hesitantly. “Well, Chief, that’s Frank Ramey of the Herald Dispatch.” “Who said he could take those pictures? We don’t want the preacher with his dick hanging out on the front page of the Dispatch.” “It’s not that, Sir. You said to stall, and I did my best. His camera’s better than ours. He volunteered to take the crime-scene photos and promised us first pick.” “Did he promise not to print them in the paper?” “He’s a good guy. He won’t cross me. He said we could have the first ones. Besides, you weren’t here.” Chief Bentley surveyed the crowd and crime scene. “What a mess. This is a management failure, and I’m the manager. Thank you for leaving him in the tree. Job well done. After I have a closer observation, get him down and keep this area secure. The sudden interruption of his vacation and the quick flight back to West Virginia with its messy crime scene almost overwhelmed him. He needed to call his wife and tell her about the situation. Most of...