together, forming a steeple. “I told you what the autopsy showed.”
I nodded. “But it could’ve been a boating accident. Maybe she and Brett were hot-rodding and ran into a piling or something; Maddie got thrown out and hit her head.”
“There’s only one problem with that,” Pickron said, opening the drawer again and shoving some papers my way. “That’s the autopsy report. Check the bottom of page three.”
I did as the sheriff instructed. I read it again, then looked up and met Bo Pickron’s eyes.
“Limestone?”
By the time I left the sheriff’s office I’d learned a few things. For starters, Sheriff Bocephus Pickron and Chief Benjamin Merritt didn’t care much for each other. Whether their beef was a personal or professional matter I had no clue, but I intended to find out. Because the body was found outside the city of St. George’s jurisdiction, Pickron had chosen not to share with Merritt or the media the fact that traces of limestone rock were imbedded in Maddie’s scalp where her skull was bashed in.
Madison Lynn Harper was indeed pregnant, somewhere near the end of the first trimester, according to the report. That backed up Sara Gillman’s story of why Maddie and Brett decided to elope. There were also traces of tetrahydrocannabinol—THC—found in Maddie’s hair and fatty tissue samples, which showed she had used marijuana in the not-too-distant past. Not a wise thing for an expectant mother, but the drug residue could have pre-dated Maddie’s pregnancy.
Regarding Maddie’s death, Brett Barfield was top dog among Pickron’s suspects. Due to the corpse’s deteriorated condition, the coroner was unable to determine whether the death was accidental or had resulted from foul play, but Pickron was absolutely convinced Brett Barfield was responsible. An all-points bulletin had been issued throughout the Southeast with a detailed description of the suspect and the vehicle he’d been driving when he and Maddie left the area.
The plot thickened. Shortly after the alleged elopement, Brett’s father, Clayton Barfield, had called the sheriff to report that Brett’s personal 18-foot runabout was missing. Mr. Barfield believed his son had been working on it in one of the repair buildings, but when he looked for the boat, it was gone.
What possible purpose would Brett and Maddie have had for a boat if they were hiking the Appalachian Trail? Could someone have stolen Brett’s runabout to make it look like he and Maddie had met with an unfortunate accident while boating in the bay?
There was yet another reason why the sheriff had less than a glowing opinion of young Barfield. While still in his teens, Brett had been busted twice by the St. George Police Department for possession of marijuana. Neither charge had stuck. The Barfield family had a slick lawyer from Tallahassee and, apparently, someone with important connections in the hierarchy of Palmetto County politics. One charge had been dropped completely, the other, much more serious involving enough pot for distribution, was reduced to a misdemeanor. But the closest Brett Barfield had come to serving hard time was picking up trash along local roadways for a few weekends.
The sheriff had one other surprise in store for me: “I’d like to deputize you, McClellan.”
My jaw dropped.
“With our budget, I’m a little short-handed and could use your help. I’ve checked your military files. Your fitness reports say you were a top-notch Marine. Good combat record, so you know how to handle yourself. If my niece’s death is somehow linked to drugs like I believe it is, well, let’s just say those boys don’t fool around. I’ll be up front with you; it could get dangerous.”
Pickron stood and leaned toward me, both meaty hands on the desktop. “You’d be working undercover and reporting only to me. Sniff around, see what you can find out about Barfield, how my niece wound up in the bay with her skull cracked by limestone rock; how
I nodded. “But it could’ve been a boating accident. Maybe she and Brett were hot-rodding and ran into a piling or something; Maddie got thrown out and hit her head.”
“There’s only one problem with that,” Pickron said, opening the drawer again and shoving some papers my way. “That’s the autopsy report. Check the bottom of page three.”
I did as the sheriff instructed. I read it again, then looked up and met Bo Pickron’s eyes.
“Limestone?”
By the time I left the sheriff’s office I’d learned a few things. For starters, Sheriff Bocephus Pickron and Chief Benjamin Merritt didn’t care much for each other. Whether their beef was a personal or professional matter I had no clue, but I intended to find out. Because the body was found outside the city of St. George’s jurisdiction, Pickron had chosen not to share with Merritt or the media the fact that traces of limestone rock were imbedded in Maddie’s scalp where her skull was bashed in.
Madison Lynn Harper was indeed pregnant, somewhere near the end of the first trimester, according to the report. That backed up Sara Gillman’s story of why Maddie and Brett decided to elope. There were also traces of tetrahydrocannabinol—THC—found in Maddie’s hair and fatty tissue samples, which showed she had used marijuana in the not-too-distant past. Not a wise thing for an expectant mother, but the drug residue could have pre-dated Maddie’s pregnancy.
Regarding Maddie’s death, Brett Barfield was top dog among Pickron’s suspects. Due to the corpse’s deteriorated condition, the coroner was unable to determine whether the death was accidental or had resulted from foul play, but Pickron was absolutely convinced Brett Barfield was responsible. An all-points bulletin had been issued throughout the Southeast with a detailed description of the suspect and the vehicle he’d been driving when he and Maddie left the area.
The plot thickened. Shortly after the alleged elopement, Brett’s father, Clayton Barfield, had called the sheriff to report that Brett’s personal 18-foot runabout was missing. Mr. Barfield believed his son had been working on it in one of the repair buildings, but when he looked for the boat, it was gone.
What possible purpose would Brett and Maddie have had for a boat if they were hiking the Appalachian Trail? Could someone have stolen Brett’s runabout to make it look like he and Maddie had met with an unfortunate accident while boating in the bay?
There was yet another reason why the sheriff had less than a glowing opinion of young Barfield. While still in his teens, Brett had been busted twice by the St. George Police Department for possession of marijuana. Neither charge had stuck. The Barfield family had a slick lawyer from Tallahassee and, apparently, someone with important connections in the hierarchy of Palmetto County politics. One charge had been dropped completely, the other, much more serious involving enough pot for distribution, was reduced to a misdemeanor. But the closest Brett Barfield had come to serving hard time was picking up trash along local roadways for a few weekends.
The sheriff had one other surprise in store for me: “I’d like to deputize you, McClellan.”
My jaw dropped.
“With our budget, I’m a little short-handed and could use your help. I’ve checked your military files. Your fitness reports say you were a top-notch Marine. Good combat record, so you know how to handle yourself. If my niece’s death is somehow linked to drugs like I believe it is, well, let’s just say those boys don’t fool around. I’ll be up front with you; it could get dangerous.”
Pickron stood and leaned toward me, both meaty hands on the desktop. “You’d be working undercover and reporting only to me. Sniff around, see what you can find out about Barfield, how my niece wound up in the bay with her skull cracked by limestone rock; how
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