Eyes of the Predator (24 page)

“Good,” George said still
smiling. “That’s good. Now what do you think? Tall as me? Taller or shorter?”

Beth’s brow furrowed for a
second. “Shorter,” she said. “Not much, but shorter than you.”

“Good, Beth,” George said then
turned to Brent watching intently from the rocker. “Brent, can you help me here
for a second.”

Brent got up and walked over to
George.

“Now, Beth,” George continued,
“I’m going to ask Brent to kind of squat down a little next to me and then rise
up slowly. When he gets to about the height you think the man was, you say so.
Okay?”

Beth nodded to George. George
nodded to Brent who bent his knees and squatted down about a foot lower than
George. George nodded at him again and Brent began rising up slowly. When he
got to about three inches of George’s full height Beth spoke.

“There, right there. That’s just
about how tall he was.”

George looked at Brent beside
him. “Good. That’s good. So I’m six feet one in my shoes and he was about three
inches shorter than me, so that would make him…”

“Five ten,” Brent interjected.

“That’s right, about five feet ten.”
George looked back at Beth. “Now Beth, how was he built? Kind of heavy set like
me or thinner like Brent?”

“Thinner,” she said confidently.
“Muscular, but thinner. More like Brent.”

“Ok. Good.” George looked at
Brent, “Thanks for the help.”

Brent nodded and went back to the
rocker.

“All right, Beth, we’re almost
done. Was there anything else about him? Mustache, beard, scars, tattoos?
Anything?”

“No, not really. His nose was
kind of thin, and his chin too, but nothing really stands out.”

“How about his voice? Did he talk
to you?”

Beth’s eyes narrowed for a
second, and then she looked up at George. There was a slight look of fear in
her eyes. She nodded.

“Yes, he talked to me. I thought
he was nice. I mean he was kind of good looking…and nice and…” Beth’s chin
quivered slightly, “Was he dangerous, I mean could he have…”

George broke in quickly, “Tell me
about his voice, Beth. Was it deep or high pitched? Did he have an accent? Did
he talk funny, or lisp or anything?”

She shook her head.

“It was just a normal voice not
real low or high. He sounded like he was from the south, but different from
around here. Not a Georgia accent, but not from up north, you know?”

“Good,” George said with a smile.
“Maybe someplace else in the south, Louisiana or Texas maybe?”

“I can’t say. I’m not very good
at that, accents and all. I know it was southern. I can’t say from where
though.” Beth looked into George’s eyes. “What did he do? Is he really bad?”

George put his pad back in his
shirt pocket. “Sit down, Beth,” he said.

George sat back on the sofa and
continued. “Yes. We think he is really bad. He hurt a girl really bad, and we
need to catch him. What you told us will help us catch him.”

Beth’s eyes were watering. She
may have been from the country, but she was not stupid. From the deputies’
questions and their seriousness, she was becoming aware that she had probably
been very lucky in her encounter with the man.

“The girl, the one he hurt, did
he…I mean is she…dead?”

George looked her in the eyes.
“Yes, she is dead. And we are going to catch him before he can do it again.”
Then he added softly, “You might want to think about working another shift. I
mean one where you aren’t alone at night all the time.”

Her face told them she was
already thinking about that.

George and Ronnie stood and
walked to the door. They turned and saw Brent standing with his arm around
Beth. Her shoulders moved slightly up and down. She was sobbing.

“Thanks, Beth, for the help. This
is important,” George said, and Ronnie nodded simultaneously.

Beth and Brent nodded back.

There was nothing else for the
deputies to say. There was information on George’s pad that had to get out.
They turned and walked through the front door.

The day outside the doublewide
was clear and sunny. A small breeze stirred the dust in the driveway.

Ronnie turned to George and said,
“Get it out, George. Be quick. Catch the son of a bitch.”

“Yep,” was the only reply.

Lyn walked unsteadily into the
truck stop between the two truck drivers, Bob and Leon. Bob looked around for a
quiet place they could put the girl while they figured out what to do next. The
breakfast crowd in the cafe had cleared out, and the lunch crowd was coming in.

“Leon, take her over there, that
empty booth in the corner. Get some coffee or something. I’ll be right there.
Gotta do something first.”

Leon, the big trucker, looked
down at Bob and nodded. He didn’t seem to say much. Lyn noticed that Big Leon
was content to let Bob, who was clearly the more energetic, take the lead and
direct things. Gently guided by Leon’s large hand on her elbow, they walked
towards the booth.

Bob walked through the store to
the driver’s lounge opposite the cafe and stood in the door for a moment
wondering what to do about the girl. Drivers were sprawled in chairs watching a
television high on a shelf in a corner, or sloshing down coffee from a pot on a
table and talking. The girl didn’t belong here. The drivers weren’t necessarily
bad, or good for that matter. It was just not a place where the young girl should
be. She didn’t belong. He thought of his own daughters and took the cell phone
from his belt.

Dialing 911, Bob waited a minute,
spoke for a minute, and waited some more. Then, turning from the lounge, he put
the phone back on his belt and walked through the store towards the cafe. Todd,
the surly clerk, was mouthing off to an old woman who had asked where the
restroom was.

For the fiftieth time in five
minutes, Bob thought ‘This is no place for the girl.’ Spotting Leon and the
girl at the booth in the cafe, he walked to them feeling better about the call
he had just made.

It was turning into a long day.
Working on less than four hours of sleep, George Mackey sipped his third large
Diet Coke since he had arrived at the Minit Mart to review the video. Now his
bladder was filling, but the pressure was keeping him awake as he made his way
south on the interstate back to Roydon.

Bob Shaklee had radioed that he
was checking the Roydon locations; two motels, two gas stations and Pete’s Place,
George was enroute to help. Shaklee and his partner, Sharon Price, had divided
the two investigations with Price focusing on the Sims case, and Shaklee
heading up the murder of the girl. George and Ronnie Kupman were assisting both
as best they could.

Heading up the exit ramp into
Roydon, George turned right and towards Pete’s Place first, for two reasons.
First, Shaklee’s Crown Victoria was parked outside, and he didn’t want to leave
Bob there alone for long. Second, he had to take a leak, bad. The three Diet
Cokes were ready to come out.

Parking the pickup at the end of
the building, he exited softly, listening for trouble. All seemed quiet. Like
every deputy in Pickham County, George had answered a number of calls at Pete’s
Place. It could be, generally was, a rough crowd. He should have warned
Shaklee.

He walked along the front of the
building, peering through the dirty windows to spot any problem inside as he
approached. Not much was visible from the outside. George was more familiar
with the place at night, when the lights inside made it easier to see what was
happening. Better to avoid any unpleasant surprise when you jerked open the
door. As he approached the door, he noted two Harleys and a beat up Dodge truck
parked in front. It was quiet today at Pete’s. At the other end of the building
was a shiny Cadillac Escalade belonging to Roy Budroe, owner and daytime
bartender.

All seemed quiet, so George
yanked the heavy steel door open and walked in. It took a moment for his eyes
to adjust to the dim lighting. A heavyset man with his fists balled and planted
on the bar leaned close to Bob Shaklee, who was standing by the bar with his
notepad in one hand and staring straight back into the big man’s face. Two men
in leather jackets stood close on either side of Shaklee, leaning against the
bar.

George checked the Harleys off in
his head accounting for their owners. In a far corner, two scruffy men in dirty
blue jeans, torn tee shirts, and ball caps sat staring at the beers on their
table, clearly not wanting any part of what was going on at the bar. The Dodge
pickup was now checked off. The caddy was Roy’s. All present and accounted for.

It was plain that Roy had been
saying something to Shaklee when George jerked the door open.

“What’s up, Roy? Have you met my
friend, Agent Shaklee of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation?” George walked up
to the bar, stopping about ten feet short. He looked at the two bikers who
stood up straight and returned his gaze defiantly.

“You boys move away from the
bar.” George’s tone was flat, even, and firm. The bikers looked at him now a
bit uncertainly. “Now,” George repeated with emphasis.

They looked briefly at Budroe,
who gave a short nod, and then moved towards a table by the door. George turned
his head following them.

“Uh, uh boys. Not there. Go grab
a table over there near them other fellas so I can see you all at once.” They
hesitated for only a second and then moved to the corner where the pickup boys
were seated. They picked a table and sat, turning their chairs so they both
faced the bar.

George turned his head back to
the bar. “Sorry, Roy. Were you saying something? Seemed like I kind of
interrupted when I came in.” He smiled pleasantly at Budroe.

“What do you want, George?”
Budroe’s gravelly voice filled the room.

“Well, didn’t Agent Shaklee
explain? Or did you give him time to explain? Are you being uncooperative with
law enforcement again, Roy? I know we’ve talked about that before.” George
shook his head in mock disappointment.

“Stop the horseshit, George. We
know who he is ,and he ain’t got no jurisdiction here.”

“Really?” George replied with
mock seriousness. “Roydon seceded from the state did it, and just forgot to get
the word out?” He paused looking deep into Budroe’s beefy face. “I don’t think
so, Roy. So, unless you want to be digging out from under the ton of shit
that’s about to land on your head, pay attention and answer Agent Shaklee’s
questions.”

Shaklee, who had about enough of
the local, good old boy bullshit, interrupted, “Listen up,
Mr. Budroe,
the GBI is working a case in support of the Pickham County Sheriff’s
Department. This is official business, and you are expected to cooperate.”

Budroe’s response was blunt and
to the point “Bullshit.”

That was it. In a move that
surprised even George, Shaklee dropped the notepad and reached rapidly across
the bar, gripping Budroe’s wrists so that he could not take his balled fists
from the bar top. George saw Budroe’s arms flex and knew he tried to lift them,
but they didn’t budge under Shaklee’s grasp.

Bob leaned into his face before
he spoke. “Let’s make sure you understand. I’m with the
Georgia
Bureau
of Investigation. This shithole of a town is in
Georgia
. The GBI has
jurisdiction. You have any questions about that?”

One of the bikers had started to
rise when Shaklee grabbed Budroe. A cautioning shake of George’s head in his
direction, and he sat back down. George watched the little drama being played
out on the bar top.

Budroe, not sure what to do,
finally spoke. “What do you want?”

Shaklee released the big man’s
wrists and picked up his notepad. “We have a few questions to ask, and then
we’ll be on our way.” He then went through the description of the suspect they
were seeking, “White male, five feet ten or so, light brown hair, driving a
faded or primer painted mid-nineties model GM car. Possibly a Chevrolet.
Wearing a ring with a steer’s head or Texas longhorn on it.”

Budroe indicated that he hadn’t
seen anyone like that, at least not anyone that would draw attention.

Bob smiled. “Good, now we can
go.”

“Wait a minute for me, Bob.
Something I need to do.”

George walked by the bikers and
into the restroom. A couple of minutes later, he walked out with a smile on his
face.

Walking to the door with Shaklee,
he called back over his shoulder, “Thanks, Roy. Never saw a better place for
taking a piss.”

Outside in the bright sun, they
squinted across the street at the two motels, one on each corner. Shaklee
glanced sideways at George.

“Thanks for the backup. Could
have got ugly in there.”

“No need. It’s pretty much always
ugly in there. Been trying to clean it up for years. You handle yourself pretty
good.”

Shaklee shrugged, “Old habits.
Spent eight years policing the south side of Atlanta before going with the
state.”

“Shows,” George replied with
greater respect for the GBI man.

“Yeah, well,” Shaklee nodded
across the street. “It’s getting late. I suggest that we split up. You take
that motel across the street, and I’ll take the one on the other corner.”

“Sounds good. After that we can
start checking up and down the interstate.”

They got into their vehicles and
drove across the street. Five minutes later, George was interviewing a very
large, heavily tattooed woman wearing a short top with string straps that
showed her large, bare, bulging midriff. The cellulite dimples and stretch
marks made it difficult for George not to stare.

The woman claimed to be the
manager of the Roydon Inn. The interview was going nowhere. She knew nothing,
and no linen or bedspreads were missing. Then Bob Shaklee called him on the
radio.