Designed to Kill (Greg McKenzie Mysteries) Page 3

  As I watched, Sam’s expression went from apprehension to devastation.

  4

  Sam and I had just returned to the living room to explain what we had learned from Sergeant Payne when the door chimes rang. As we watched, Tara greeted a man with a full head of sandy hair and a short, chunky build. He was dressed in blue jeans and a denim jacket. His smudged boots made him look like a hunter or a fisherman just in from the wild. But something about him, probably the prominent nose and receding chin, reminded me of a big fat weasel with horn-rimmmed glasses. He hugged Tara, then followed her into the room. Ted, her middle son, darted toward him with the anguished cry, “Uncle Walt.”

  The man bent down to hug young Ted, then turned to Tara. “I was out on the lake when you called. I came as soon as I got your message.”

  “Thanks,” she said, taking a deep breath. “You know Tim’s mom and dad. This is their close friends Greg and Jill McKenzie.” She looked across at me. “Mr. McKenzie, meet Walt Sturdivant, Tim’s right-hand man at New Horizons.”

  He hurried over to shake my hand, then nodded at Jill. When he spoke, he rushed the words like a man short on patience. “Nice to meet both of you. I’m still in shock. What happened?”

  “Greg just talked with a sergeant from the sheriff’s office in Pensacola,” Sam said. “I’ll let him fill you in.”

  I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m no good at sugarcoating a tasteless dish. When I had finished with what Sergeant Payne told me, Sturdivant’s eyes widened.

  “The penthouse balcony? No way.” He pulled a gnarled pipe from his pocket and pointed its dark wood stem for emphasis. “That building was designed to withstand a major hurricane. I’m a mechanical, not a structural, engineer. But I went over every feature of that building with Tim. The balcony was a cantilever design, loaded with heavy rebars. Unless the contractor screwed up, nothing like that could have happened.”

  “Could the contractor have goofed?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It’s possible. I was down there a few times. Never when they were pouring concrete. If there was a problem, though, the inspector should have caught it. He’s required to be there for every pour. Even takes backup photographs.”

  “The sergeant talked like Tim felt he was responsible for those people dying,” Sam said.

  Sturdivant shook his head, stuck the pipe between his teeth and spoke around it. “He shouldn’t have.”

  Sam dropped down onto the sofa, his face drawn. “Well, even if he had...if he had somehow felt responsibility for what happened, he wouldn’t have shot himself. He would have faced the consequences like a man.”

  Sam looked around at Wilma. “Remember when he was in the Navy and they accused him of causing a serious auto accident on base? He didn’t try to run or make excuses. He accepted the consequences and made the best of it.”

  ———

  During the next hour, the phone was seldom idle. Tara talked with our minister, arranging the funeral for early Monday morning—the deputy had said Tim’s body should be released by the Medical Examiner later today. Sam phoned a few friends and relatives and Sturdivant contacted employees of New Horizons Architects & Engineers. It was around ten when Sergeant Payne called back and asked for me.

  “We didn’t find anything of interest in your condo, Mr. McKenzie,” he said. “I was careful not to disturb any of your things. There was a laptop computer on the bedroom desk, but I didn’t know if it was yours or his.”

  Actually, it was Tim’s, but I let it go. “So we were right—no suicide note.”

  He reminded me of something I already knew. “That doesn’t rule out suicide. Most of them don’t leave notes. We checked on the gun, incidentally. It was a Colt .38 Special, registered to Timothy Gannon in Nashville.”

  “I believe he had a permit to carry it, Sergeant. Florida has reciprocity with Tennessee.” I knew. I had checked before bringing my 9mm Beretta down the first time. It was a chopped version of the weapon I had used on active duty. I didn’t find it necessary to carry all the time, but I usually kept it close by.

  “Weapons are not allowed in parks, state or federal,” Payne said.

  Touché.

  “Did you check it for fingerprints?”

  “His were the only ones.”

  “What about the round?”

  “It was a .38, same as the gun. We found it in the back seat. It had struck the door post and wound up on the floor.”

  “Have you heard from the ME’s office?”

  “No, sir. But they’re working on the autopsy now.”

  “Who found the body, Sergeant?”

  “A couple of fishermen. They had just brought their boat in.”

  “What time?”

  “Around six a.m.”

  “Did they open the car door?”

  “No. It was locked. They saw him through the window and called star-five-five on their cell phone.”

  “The emergency number for the Park Service,” I said. I recalled the sign on the National Seashore road at the entrance to Johnson Beach.

  “Yes, sir. The parks dispatcher notified the law enforcement ranger. After he checked it out, he called me.”

  “I presume the ranger took measures to protect the scene?”

  There was a pause before he asked, “Are you a police officer, Mr. McKenzie?”

  “No, Sergeant. I’m a retired special agent in charge with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. I also worked as an investigator with the DA’s office in Nashville.”

  “Well, sir, I can assure you that everybody’s been very thorough with this case. And I fully expect the Medical Examiner to rule it a suicide.”

  Despite Sam’s strong feelings and my tentative doubts, fueled by Sturdivant’s description of the balcony design, I had no real basis to question the deputy’s rigid opinion. But I didn’t like his know-it-all attitude. “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. “When will his car and personal effects be available to pick up?”

  “As soon as the body’s released by the ME. The vehicle is in our impound yard.”

  Tim drove a plain-Jane three-year-old Chevy Blazer. Sam had told me Tim was spending most of his money on a new building and staff. He wasn’t much on perks like expensive meals and fancy cars.

  “Did you find our condo key in the vehicle?” I asked. “It was on a Gulf Sands key chain.”

  “I don’t remember seeing it,” Sergeant Payne said. “No doubt he left it in the condo. With what he was planning to do to himself, he knew he wouldn’t need it anymore.”

  Fortunately, Sam wasn’t listening in this time. And the deputy’s dogmatic views were starting to get to me. He was too reminiscent of a hardheaded Metro Nashville detective who had wound up costing me my job with the DA. “Did you see a key in the condo?” I asked. It was a loaded question.

  His reply was a somewhat smug, “Matter of fact, I did. It was hanging on the wall just inside the kitchen.”

  “That was our beach key,” I said. “It’s on a string so you can put it around your neck when you’re wearing a swim suit.”

  I could have grinned, but I knew I hadn’t scored any victory. The sergeant hadn’t changed his mind in the slightest, and I still had to face my friend with the unpleasant verdict.

  5

  After hanging up the phone, I turned to Sam, who was seated at the kitchen table, chin resting in the V formed by his upraised hands. “I guess you gathered they didn’t find any note,” I said. “But Payne still insists it was suicide. Maybe you should go to Pensacola and have a look around, ask some questions of your own. Jill has been bugging me to go down to the condo. You could come with us after the funeral on Monday, pick up Tim’s stuff and claim his car.”

  Sam sat back and crossed his arms, looking thoughtful. “I should probably stay here and help Tara. There will be a mile of red tape to cut through. Could you and Jill pick up his things for us?”

  “Sure,” I said, “but we’ll be going down in my Jeep. Jill isn’t abl
e to fly her Cessna yet, and she’s in no shape to drive much. What about Tim’s car?”

  Walt Sturdivant had wandered in as we talked, followed by Jill and Tara. The small kitchen was getting crowded. “I want to go down there and take a look at what happened,” Sturdivant said. “I can bring the car back.” He looked around at Tara. “Will you need it?”

  She shook her head. “It belongs to the company, doesn’t it?”

  “Right. But you’re now the owner of the company.”

  “Oh, God. I hadn’t even thought about that. You can do whatever you want with that Blazer. I never want to see it again.” She stared at the floor, her thoughts turned inward.

  I looked across at Jill. “I told Sam we’d drive down to Pensacola after the funeral. Walt can ride with us.”

  She gave me a rueful smile. “Sure wish I could fly. It would save a lot of time.”

  Flying would also save me a lot of driving. Jill had run her own charter service for several years during my Air Force career. She still had a Cessna 172 she kept at Cornelia Fort Airport, not far from our home in Hermitage. The doctor would not clear her to fly again for at least a couple of months. Frankly, I’ve never been all that keen on flying, which most people think odd since I spent all those years in the Air Force. I’m a member of that breed known as “white knuckle” fliers. Maybe it stemmed from the crash that killed my parents. Anyway, I occasionally found myself holding my breath when Jill headed in for a landing, even though I knew she was as good a pilot as any around.

  “I’ll be ready to go as soon as we leave the cemetery,” Walt said.

  ———

  A Sunday School classmate of Tim and Tara brought over a platter filled with sandwiches, including my favorite, tuna salad. We were just finishing lunch when Tara received a call from the Medical Examiner’s Office in Pensacola.

  She spoke so softly I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but after she hung up, she dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “They ruled it a suicide.”

  The word of Tim’s death had spread like the winter flu. The living room soon began to resemble a family reunion as close friends from church and from New Horizons stopped by to offer their condolences. Jill and I decided it was time for us to bail out and give the Gannons a little breathing room.

  Sam walked us out to my dusty brown Jeep Grand Cherokee.

  “Don’t hesitate to call us if there’s anything we can do,” I said.

  Sam, who towers over me by several inches, looked down intensely through the open window as I sat behind the wheel. “There is one thing I’d really appreciate your doing, Greg.”

  I nodded.

  “Find out who shot my son.” His voice was as cold and sober as I’d ever heard him.

  For a moment, I sat there unsure of what to say. Finally, I asked, “What makes you think somebody shot him, Sam?”

  “I know he didn’t shoot himself. So somebody had to.”

  I couldn’t question that kind of logic. But it left me in something bordering on limbo. I had pondered the idea of getting into the private investigator business on more than one occasion lately, even discussing the possibility with Jill. But most of what I knew about the field indicated it involved mainly digging into the dirty laundry of people with shaky marriages. That held as much appeal as shoveling manure on the horse farm that backed up to our property. I didn’t have to work. With my Air Force pension, plus the stock, bond and real estate portfolio Jill’s father had left her, we were in great shape financially.

  “I don’t have a PI license,” I said.

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I guess not, since I wouldn’t be working for a fee.”

  “I’d be willing to pay you,” Sam said, “but I know you don’t want that. Your young OSI friend down at Arnold Air Force Base told me you were the best investigator he’d ever known. I’m sure you can find out the truth.”

  He was referring to Ted Kennerly, whose first assignment was under me as special agent in charge. That was the position he now held at Arnold, seventy miles south of Nashville. I appreciated the compliment, but I wasn’t sure how well I might do as a sleuth-without-portfolio. I would have no official status or access to any of the conventional tools of the trade.

  “Wilma and I will be forever grateful,” Sam said as I hesitated.

  I felt Jill’s hand squeeze my arm and knew that meant do it—I’m with you. “Okay, Sam,” I said. “But you need to realize that what I find out may not be the answer you’re looking for.”

  ———

  I put in a lot of time that evening reflecting on the assignment I had reluctantly taken on. In some ways it seemed exactly what I needed, a break from the monotony of idleness imposed by circumstances over which I appeared to have no control. I had been fired by the DA after my off-the-record comments about a Metro Nashville detective wound up on the front pages and the nightly news, suggesting falsely that I was demeaning the entire police department. A fair-sized clique on the force proceeded to make life miserable for me. And even after my position had been vindicated when the woman the homicide officer declared murdered showed up quite alive, my reputation had been so tarnished I doubted I could get another investigative job around Nashville.

  Florida was a distant locale. And I had serious questions about how my efforts would be received down there. I would be just another John Q. Citizen poking his nose into matters the authorities would likely declare none of my affair. I doubted they would escort me to the state line and give me the boot, but they might find the idea tempting. I would have no legal standing. And if I tried to pose as a professional investigator, I could be charged with operating without a license.

  When I broached the subject with Jill, she gave me a skeptical grin. “Going against what other people think you should do never seemed to slow you down in the past.”

  She had me there. In and out of the Air Force, I had pretty well charted my course according to McKenzie’s two laws of motion—don’t be deterred by what others think proper (or improper), and pursue the facts to judgment regardless of whose toes get trampled.

  What bothered me as much as anything was the prospect that I might wind up proving exactly the opposite of what I hoped to. Could Tim Gannon have somehow botched The Sand Castle project, caused some people to die, and killed himself from remorse? I didn’t want to believe that, but I climbed into bed that night knowing I would peek under every grain of sand on Perdido Key until I was satisfied I had found the truth.

  6

  Sunday was not a day to write home about. The Gannons, understandably, didn’t make it to church that morning. When Jill and I found ourselves bombarded with questions about what had happened, we adopted the old military keep-it-vague attitude, while striving to shoot down some of the unsavory rumors that had begun to take wings. The story of the faulty balcony and Tim’s death, ruled a suicide, had made the morning headlines. I was painfully acquainted with the aftermath of unfavorable newspaper publicity.

  “Did you read about Sam Gannon’s boy?” one nattily-attired worshiper told me in a condescending tone. “I heard the whole shaky building might come tumbling down like one of those World Trade Towers in New York.”

  The Tennessee Titans were playing a home game at noon that day, sparing us any further badgering after the sermon. Those who didn’t skip the eleven o’clock service for seats at the stadium headed for the nearest TV as soon as the final notes of the postlude faded from the organ pipes. We had only the preacher to stop us on the way out.

  “I presume you’ll be at the funeral home this afternoon,” said Dr. Peter Trent.

  I nodded. “Four to eight. Sam and Wilma, not to mention Tara, need all the support we can give them.”

  Dr. Trent was a towering former basketball player whose ecclesiastical robe made him resemble a cloth-draped lodgepole pine. He frowned down at us. “I’m afraid some of our flock haven’t been terribly understanding. Fortunately, I think the number is small, and they won’t likely be at the fu
neral home.”

  “True,” I said. “But it takes only one fruitcake to blunder out with a terribly painful gaffe.”

  “Hopefully, that won’t happen. Were you a bit surprised that Tara wanted to have the service so early? I’m sure most of their friends work, so eight o’clock would cause the least inconvenience. She’s a very considerate young woman.”

  “It’s good for us, too,” Jill said. “We’re leaving for Pensacola right after the service. The early start will give us a chance to get there before dark.”

  ———

  The pain we had experienced that morning was mental or emotional. In the afternoon, it got physical. Vickie, Jill’s white-haired physical therapist, had instructed her to do her exercises three times a day. They included lying on her back, holding her left arm out and raising it as high as possible, then moving it from side to side. The goal was once again to extend her arm straight up, an angle of 180 degrees. At Jill’s therapy session on Friday, Vickie had measured the achievement of just over sixty degrees.

  “Problems?” I asked.

  I stood in the doorway of our oversize bedroom, watching her exercise on the king-size bed. The room was an example of dimensions throughout the large log house we had bought on moving to Tennessee. The place had to have been built by a man with visions of structural grandeur. Jill let her arm flop to her side, a frown on her face.

  “I can’t even get fifty-five degrees,” she said.

  I tried to boost her spirits. “Just keep at it, babe. It’ll get better.”

  She got up and moved to the walk-in closet, where she sat on a chair in front of the door. I had rigged a pulley with a rope suspended by a web belt attached to the top of the door, the rope ends tied to short sections of garden hose for handholds. One of her exercises was to pull down on the rope with her right hand, stretching the left arm upward. Then she would pull with the left hand, elevating the right arm. She began to grimace as she pulled and stretched.

  “Is that pain or discomfort?” I asked.