The Devil's Water: Scenic City Murder Series #1 (13 page)

“Hello, Mr. Campbell.” She said as she approached with a smile on her face.

He held out his hand and she took it. “Please call me David.”

Tasha noticed that David Campbell had a fresh haircut. It was very short and most of it was a steel gray. With his blue eyes, Tasha thought that he looked a little bit like Anderson Cooper. She noticed the brachial artery running through his bicep.
God, he’s gorgeous
she thought as she felt her face flush. “Shall I call you Tasha or Ms. Yoder?” he asked, smiling.

“Oh please. Tasha will do.” She answered.

“Well, let’s sit down.” He said, motioning her over to a chair.

Tasha chose a leather chair which looked more suited for a home den than a hospital waiting room. David remained standing until she was comfortably put.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” she asked.

“Well, the doctor is with her now. He’s talking with her dad. As far as I can tell, there hasn’t been a whole lot of change in her condition but she’s in there somewhere. We’ve got reason to believe that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, yesterday her heart rate picked up when she heard her father’s voice. The doctor believes she can recognize familiar voices. She just can’t wake up yet but it’s a start.”

“Hey, that’s really good news.” Tasha commented, displaying a wide grin.

“Absolutely. Dr. Limmel and I are both hoping that she might recover from this. She may not be exactly the same but all of us are praying for the best possible outcome.”

“How is Dr. Limmel?”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s still a little upset about the story that came out in the paper. You know, the impotence story. He was afraid someone in the PD was trying to ruin him. I see where he’s coming from. Frankly, I was pissed myself.”

“I really don’t believe that’s the case, David. We’re all in this together. All any of us want is to catch Berndt.”

“Hank Gamblin doesn’t seem to care about anything other than his own career. He’s really just out for number one.” Campbell stated.

“Oh, don’t get me going on Gamblin. I’ve already been burned by that prick. It almost caused me to abandon the case.”

“Yeah. I remember the story about your past. That was a real shot below the belt.” David placed his hand on Tasha’s shoulder and gazed at her with his big blue eyes. They were almost the color of the water off the Cayman Islands and Tasha found herself getting lost in them. She continued staring at him until his baby blues focused on something going on behind her.

“Mr. Shipley. What did the doctor have to say?” he asked. Tasha turned and saw Buck Shipley coming through the glass door of the waiting room. Shipley held up his hand and waved as an acknowledgement to Tasha and came to take a seat beside David. “Well, the doctor is impressed with Carol’s improvement. He believes that she has some awareness and he considers that a very positive sign. Her pulse is still speeding up when I talk around her. She’s in there. It’s just gonna take some time.”

“That’s great news, Mr. Shipley. David had told me about her progress.” Tasha said.

“Well, I need to go down and talk to the wife. She’s in the chapel. We’ll go down and have some breakfast in the cafeteria. Are you staying around David?” Mr. Shipley asked.

“No. I need to get back to the morgue.” Campbell said, checking his watch.

“Well, I need to run too.” Tasha stated. “I will be sure to tell Lieutenant Mclutcheon the good news.”

All three of them stood up at the same time and Buck Shipley put his hand on David Campbell’s back. “I can’t tell you how grateful the wife and I are that you two have been checking in on Carol like this. Especially you David. It lets one know that you or your loved one aren’t just a case. You’re real people.”

A tear came to the man’s eye which he quickly brushed away. “Thank you so much.”

 “You’re quite welcome, Mr. Shipley.” David said. “Dr. Limmel and I will keep up with Carol’s daily progress as things develop.”

“I plan on doing the same, Mr. Shipley.” Tasha commented. “We are all interested in what happens to Carol.”

For a moment, Tasha thought of Mrs. Shipley. “Tell your wife that we are all praying for Carol and her progress. The Lord’s will be done.” She said and hoped she wasn’t struck down by a lightning bolt.

“Yes, ma’am. I know that my wife will be happy that you both came today.” Buck Shipley said. “I know you all have things to do. Do come back though. We need the both of you and you have become like family.”

“We’ll be back, Buck.” David said. He glanced at Tasha and winked. “We’ll be your family since you need us.” He held out a well muscled arm to Tasha. She took it and they walked, arm in arm, out of the waiting room.

CHAPTER 27

It was a cold dreary day in downtown Chattanooga. Fall had come and, with it, gray gloomy weather. Hank Gamblin didn’t like fall and couldn’t imagine why anyone would. Everything around him was dying. He clutched his trench coat tightly around him to ward off the chill. Several raindrops fell from the heavens landing directly on the top of his head. It made his teeth chatter. He whispered and expletive under his breath and kept on walking. Not much further to the building which housed the local paper. He tried to imagine how warm it would be in his office. Hank had read about visualization and how the body could react to it. Suddenly, he felt his body relaxing a bit as he strolled through the rain. Unfortunately, a cold gust of wind brought him right back to reality and his teeth began chattering again.
Fuck
.

As he reached the glass doors of the lobby, he felt a cold raindrop trickle down his temple. Wiping it away, he ran a hand across his hair and noted that it was soaking wet. Of course, the hair itself was tied neatly in a club at the back of his head. Hank Gamblin had always figured that his hairstyle was his signature. He shook the cold off his bones and made his way to his office. It was on the first floor all the way to the end of the long hallway. Hank glanced down and noticed the dark stained oak floors. The rich color gleamed because they’d just been waxed. Hank listened as the heels of his dress shoes clicked as he walked. Once he reached his office door, he dug in his pocket and produced a key. Sticking it into the lock, he twisted until the knob turned and the door gave way. Gamblin threw his satchel on the chair beside his desk and walked over to his thermostat. He turned it up, noticing that his ear lobes felt hot and numb. As he moved to take a seat at his desk, he saw a button on his phone that was flashing. Hank hit ‘play’ and waited for the message. In a second, he heard the voice of Floyd Banfield, his assignment editor. Banfield and Gamblin had worked together for a long time and had a rather stormy relationship. As Hank listened, he could feel the storm clouds begin to gather again. He felt his face flush as the message ended and picked up the phone to dial in house. Hank Gamblin was steaming mad. He punched in the numbers and sat still for a few seconds until a soft nasal toned voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“Floyd, what the hell is going on here?” Hank said as his voice rose with each word.

“Look. I knew you wouldn’t be happy with this assignment when I wanted you for it. It’s an article that needs to be written by a senior reporter. You were my choice.”

“I don’t do personal interest stories about soldiers and missing limbs and the Afghan war, Floyd. I’m above that and you know it.”

“This is a serious story about a hometown boy who barely survived an IED. I would think you’d have some friggin’ respect for the kid.” Floyd answered.

“This has no bearing on my responsibility to country and honor and patriotism and all that horseshit, Floyd. This has to do with the fact that I don’t write fluff pieces that come out on Sundays and make little old women misty eyed. I’m better than that and you fucking know it.” Hank yelled. There was complete silence on the phone for thirty seconds. “Are you still there?” Hank finally asked.

“You’ll do the story. You may not like it but I’m your editor and I assign stories to reporters. That’s my job, Hank. By the way, you’re not the only show horse I have in my stable and I’d like you to remember that.”

“Of all the fucking nerve! I have sold more papers than anybody who works under you. My stories are current and important. We broke sale records, for chrissakes, during the height of the Devil’s Water killings and aftermath.”

“Are you suggesting the war in Afghanistan isn’t relevant?” Floyd asked flatly.

“I am absolutely sick of being disrespected! I am a much higher caliber of reporter than anyone else we have. I have other job offers, you know.”

“Well, you do what you have to do but I expect to see the article about the wounded soldier soon. Like, very soon.”

Hank slammed the phone down in its cradle and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He reached in, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and pulled out his shot glass. He filled it with the bourbon and downed the shot in one gulp. For good measure, he repeated the procedure once more and then put the bourbon and shot glass back in the drawer. Goddammit, he was mad. Probably as mad as he’d ever been at Floyd Banfield and there had been quite a few occasions that he and Floyd didn’t see things eye to eye. All he had needed was one good reason to go to Seattle or Bangor or even Louisville. They had all expressed interest in him and he was sure they would treat him with more respect than that nasal sounding shithead, Floyd Banfield.
Fucking prick
he thought as he sat in his chair looking down at his Mont Blanc pen. He had to figure out what to do. He had considered the other job opportunities he had been offered and, right now, he imagined himself sitting in a first class seat on a one way flight to Louisville Kentucky. There, they would recognize his talents and reward him accordingly. Hank whirled around in his chair to face his computer table which was stationed behind his desk. He popped open his laptop and browsed his email. He was looking for a certain name and, when he found it, he hit the ‘enter’ button. Tom Lowery was the bigwig at the Louisville Courier. He was the one who had expressed extreme interest in Hank. He was the one who knew true talent when he saw it. Hank examined the email once more and made note of the telephone number with his Mont Blanc pen. Whirling back around to his desk, he picked up the receiver and dialed. What Hank Gamblin wanted was a meeting. He knew that Lowery would be happy to oblige. Hell, Lowery had been the one that suggested it. “Hello, Tom? It’s Hank Gamblin.” He said as he smiled a big wide shit eating grin.

The clouds which had hung over Chattanooga all morning, dissipated as the day wore on. Patches of blue, the color of a robin’s egg, broke through and sunlight occasionally beamed down. It was five o clock and the streets were becoming congested with people whose minds were on home and family. Hank Gamblin’s mind was on neither. Strolling down a puddled sidewalk, he smiled and chuckled to himself as he thought of the endless possibilities Louisville Kentucky would provide. He didn’t have the job sewn up exactly but Tom Lowery had all but promised him the position. Hank thought about the way Tom almost gushed when he realized his interest.
Louisville. My Old Kentucky Home. Some of the finest bourbon ever made,
he thought as he continued walking to his car and growing giddier with each step. Finally, Hank would be appreciated. He would also be on a flight day after tomorrow and would be leaving Floyd Banfield with his balls swinging in the breeze. Gamblin was almost to his car when his cell phone vibrated. He reached into his pocket and looked at the screen. It was a text message from a number he didn’t recognize. “new info on flo/meet me tonight/very important!/devil’s water/9pm.” Hank Gamblin unlocked his car and crawled into the driver’s seat. He didn’t normally answer strange text messages but this directive was obviously for him and him only. Hank began typing. In a moment, he hit ‘send’. He stuck the keys into his ignition and sat back in the seat to wait for a response. Two or three minutes later, his phone vibrated again. He lifted it up to read. “who do you think I am/ I have to be discreet.” Gamblin studied the message for awhile before making a decision.
Vicelli,
he thought. Martin Vicelli was a total wimp and would be afraid of getting caught. He always had been. Gamblin could see, in his mind’s eye, the fat little Italian ratting out the PD. Vicelli never would make eye contact when he was telling his stories but perspiration would cover his face when he was finished. Gamblin thought Vicelli was a candy ass who didn’t know where his true allegiance should lay. Of course, that wasn’t going to keep Gamblin from using the rat to his advantage. Hank smiled as he started typing. He planned on leaving Chattanooga and never coming back. He would, however, go out in style.

The night was black down on the banks of the Tennessee River. Cloud coverage had come once again and it had probably dropped twenty degrees in temperature since the sun set a few hours before. It was 9:10 and Hank Gamblin was growing restless. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he sat in the dark. The engine was on and heat blew through the vents. He read the digital display for the inside temperature. 72 degrees. He glanced at his watch again. It was 9:11.
Shit.
Hank really wanted this last hoorah but he wasn’t willing to wait forever to get it. He decided that he would give Vicelli until 9:20 and then he was getting the fuck out of there. The Devil’s Water gave him the creeps anyway and it was beyond reason why Vicelli would want to meet him here in the first place. The only possibility that Hank could think of was the fact that Vicelli wanted the rendezvous completely on the QT. Maybe Vicelli had something important to show him here. Hank mulled that idea over in his head until he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. It was a yellow beam of light. As the light grew closer, Hank realized that there were actually two beams of lights. A car was coming. Hank leaned up in his seat and flashed his own beams on and off twice to signal that he was there. Grabbing the door handle, he reached for the flashlight laying on the seat beside him and opened the car door. He got out of the car and was a little surprised at how cold the evening had gotten even since he had left his house. In the glow of the headlights coming toward him, Hank Gamblin could see his breath in the night air. The vehicle was perhaps thirty yards away but Hank could hear music coming from the car loud and clear. He tried to place it. Maybe the 40’s. Big band like Cole Porter. He raised an arm and smiled at the two headlights which were almost blinding. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he watched as the car finally came to its resting place not twenty feet from where he was standing. In a second, the engine and lights were cut off and he heard the car door open. “Hello, Vicelli.” Hank offered as he heard twigs and limbs breaking underfoot. Closer and closer they came. “I said ‘hello’ Martin. Are you going to say anything?” There was still no answer. Hank turned his flashlight on and aimed it directly in front of him. “What the….what are you doing here?” He asked stupidly to the person standing there. Hank Gamblin never got his answer. The last thing he saw was a pistol aimed directly at his head. Two shots rang out in the cool night air disturbing a resting owl on a limb high above. As the bird flew away, Hank slumped to the ground. Hank Gamblin was most definitely dead.