Read Online 4 The Marathon Murders by CHESTER D CAMPBELL - Free Book Online
Authors: CHESTER D CAMPBELL
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Sometimes I’ll try to picture the scene, like
the driveway in this case, and it’ll come back to me.”
Martha Urey squinted her eyes as she looked over toward Bradley’s house. “Wasn’t a
sheriff’s car for sure. Seems maybe it could have been one of them
little sports cars. You know, with a rakish sweep to the front end.”
“Do you remember the color?”
“It was pretty dark when I saw it.”
We thanked her for her help. I gave
her the usual call us if you think of anything else routine. Occasionally a
witness would recall more details later, particularly if they talked to
somebody else about what they saw. We headed back to my Jeep.
“Sounds like a Corvette,” Jill
said.
I opened the door for her and stood
there a moment. “Could be, but there are any number of little sports cars with
rakish front ends. And don’t forget, eyewitness accounts can be notoriously
unreliable.” That was a point most people didn’t understand.
“Then why bother asking?”
“Sometimes we get lucky. What I’m
saying is we need a lot more info before we can slot that little piece into the
right place in the puzzle. Let’s get back over to the lake and see if the
investigators have arrived.”
The string of vehicles clustered along the shoulder of the
road looked like worshipers parked for Sunday morning at a country church. The
sheriff’s cars had been moved out to allow a more detailed search of the
lakefront. A few other cars and pickup trucks added to the gaggle of vehicles.
A small group of men stood around the deputy who had been posted at the opening
of the trail. Word of the tragic drowning had probably spread to the nearby
boat dock. I parked behind a pickup, and we walked down to the uniformed
officer.
“Has the TBI truck arrived yet?” I
asked.
“Just got here.”
“Agent Fought told us to come on
back.”
He pulled out his radio and said
something about “the PI and his wife.” I heard Sheriff Driscoll’s voice reply,
“Send ‘ em on in.”
We hiked into the woods, happy the
clouds had migrated westward, blocking out the sun. The humidity made me feel
like I’d forgotten to dry off after a shower. We found a large white truck
parked behind the sheriff’s car. Lettering on the side spelled out Tennessee
Bureau of Investigation, below that “Crime Scene Investigation.”
One of the techs logged us in.
Wayne Fought stood a few yards away with Sheriff Driscoll, talking to a couple
of the investigators. I debated whether to tell them about our visit to Martha
Urey. The idea lost out in the debate. I decided it would be best to stick with
our side of the bargain and stay out of the way. The small bit of info we had
gleaned might make a good bargaining chip later on.
I watched as one of the techs
bagged a few small items the deputies had picked up in their search around the
lakefront. It looked like cigarette packs or candy wrappers. Another took
photos of the entire area. Photography usually proved one of the major sources
of information gained from a crime scene. My interest centered on their truck,
which was a new one I hadn’t encountered. Three large panels on each side
lifted up to give access to all the tools of the trade. One section featured every
size, shape, and type of evidence bag or container imaginable. Large metal
boxes in another bore such labels as “Fingerprint,” “Serology,” and “Firearms.” No doubt specialized kits for gathering evidence in those
fields.
The driver finally cranked up his
wrecker and began to pull the Jeep out of the lake. The photographer kept
snapping pictures as the vehicle emerged like a submarine breaking the surface
of the water. It resembled some mud-encrusted sea monster trailing tentacles of
weeds. I saw a bloated body slumped against the steering wheel when the front
end came up out of the water.
Fought and Driscoll walked over to
the vehicle with one of the rubber-gloved techs, who moved the victim’s head
around for a better
the driveway in this case, and it’ll come back to me.”
Martha Urey squinted her eyes as she looked over toward Bradley’s house. “Wasn’t a
sheriff’s car for sure. Seems maybe it could have been one of them
little sports cars. You know, with a rakish sweep to the front end.”
“Do you remember the color?”
“It was pretty dark when I saw it.”
We thanked her for her help. I gave
her the usual call us if you think of anything else routine. Occasionally a
witness would recall more details later, particularly if they talked to
somebody else about what they saw. We headed back to my Jeep.
“Sounds like a Corvette,” Jill
said.
I opened the door for her and stood
there a moment. “Could be, but there are any number of little sports cars with
rakish front ends. And don’t forget, eyewitness accounts can be notoriously
unreliable.” That was a point most people didn’t understand.
“Then why bother asking?”
“Sometimes we get lucky. What I’m
saying is we need a lot more info before we can slot that little piece into the
right place in the puzzle. Let’s get back over to the lake and see if the
investigators have arrived.”
The string of vehicles clustered along the shoulder of the
road looked like worshipers parked for Sunday morning at a country church. The
sheriff’s cars had been moved out to allow a more detailed search of the
lakefront. A few other cars and pickup trucks added to the gaggle of vehicles.
A small group of men stood around the deputy who had been posted at the opening
of the trail. Word of the tragic drowning had probably spread to the nearby
boat dock. I parked behind a pickup, and we walked down to the uniformed
officer.
“Has the TBI truck arrived yet?” I
asked.
“Just got here.”
“Agent Fought told us to come on
back.”
He pulled out his radio and said
something about “the PI and his wife.” I heard Sheriff Driscoll’s voice reply,
“Send ‘ em on in.”
We hiked into the woods, happy the
clouds had migrated westward, blocking out the sun. The humidity made me feel
like I’d forgotten to dry off after a shower. We found a large white truck
parked behind the sheriff’s car. Lettering on the side spelled out Tennessee
Bureau of Investigation, below that “Crime Scene Investigation.”
One of the techs logged us in.
Wayne Fought stood a few yards away with Sheriff Driscoll, talking to a couple
of the investigators. I debated whether to tell them about our visit to Martha
Urey. The idea lost out in the debate. I decided it would be best to stick with
our side of the bargain and stay out of the way. The small bit of info we had
gleaned might make a good bargaining chip later on.
I watched as one of the techs
bagged a few small items the deputies had picked up in their search around the
lakefront. It looked like cigarette packs or candy wrappers. Another took
photos of the entire area. Photography usually proved one of the major sources
of information gained from a crime scene. My interest centered on their truck,
which was a new one I hadn’t encountered. Three large panels on each side
lifted up to give access to all the tools of the trade. One section featured every
size, shape, and type of evidence bag or container imaginable. Large metal
boxes in another bore such labels as “Fingerprint,” “Serology,” and “Firearms.” No doubt specialized kits for gathering evidence in those
fields.
The driver finally cranked up his
wrecker and began to pull the Jeep out of the lake. The photographer kept
snapping pictures as the vehicle emerged like a submarine breaking the surface
of the water. It resembled some mud-encrusted sea monster trailing tentacles of
weeds. I saw a bloated body slumped against the steering wheel when the front
end came up out of the water.
Fought and Driscoll walked over to
the vehicle with one of the rubber-gloved techs, who moved the victim’s head
around for a better
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