Say Goodbye

TWENTY-NINE

“Indoors, these spiders are commonly found in houses and associated outbuildings, boiler houses, schools, churches, stores, hotels and other such buildings.”

FROM Biology of the Brown Recluse Spider

BY JULIA MAXINE HITE, WILLIAM J. GLADNEY, J. L. LANCASTER, JR., AND W. H. WHITCOMB, DEPARTMENT OF ENTOMOLOGY, DIVISION OF AGRICULTURE, UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS, FAYETTEVILLE, MAY 1966

DAHLONEGA FELL UNDER THE JURISDICTION OF THE Lumpkin County Sheriff ’s Department. Unfortunately, the sheriff was out for a week on a D.A.R.E. training seminar. Instead, Sal managed to line up a four o’clock appointment with Sheriff Boyd Duffy of neighboring Union County.

Harold had to bow out. He already had an afternoon meeting with a couple of bankers helping him trace terrorist money online. His parting advice: “Visit the U.S. Forestry Service fish hatcheries by Suches. Those guys know everything.”

That left Sal, Kimberly, Quincy, and Rainie. With Dahlonega an hour’s ride north on the GA 400, they decided to shoot straight up and back. It would mean a late night, but they’d all worked later.

They formed a small caravan: Sal and Kimberly in the lead car, Rainie and Quincy bringing up the rear. Sal’s mood hadn’t improved since their meeting with the arachnologist. He drove with his swarthy face set in a perpetual scowl, preoccupied with thoughts he apparently didn’t feel like sharing.

Kimberly worked her cell phone. She called Mac first, but he didn’t answer. She left him a message, hoping she didn’t sound as defiant as she felt. She debated touching base with her supe, but decided less was more. No one really cared what she did for one afternoon, as long as she got the paperwork processed and kept her assigned cases moving ahead.

Which she would do. Later tonight. First thing in the morning. Absolutely.

Next, she tried the lead investigator for Alpharetta, Marilyn Watson. Watson picked up, just in time for Kimberly to lose the signal. She tried again, with mixed results.

“No latent prints…air…ber. Projectile…impressions.” Watson reported when Kimberly asked what evidence had been recovered at the Tommy Mark Evans homicide.

“Wait, you got a shoe print?”

“Tire tread…sions.”

“You got tire tread impressions? Do you know what kind of vehicle?”

More static. Fuzz. Then dead silence.

Kimberly glanced at her cell phone. Signal strength had dropped. Sure enough, she heard three beeps, then the call was gone.

She scowled while eyeing the digital display, waiting for signal strength. No such luck.

“She said they got tire tread impressions,” Kimberly reported at last. “Still not sure about shoe print or not, and it sounded like they did recover a projectile. Or maybe not. It was that kind of conversation.”

“What kind of vehicle?”

“Didn’t get that far. But assuming they cast the impression, we should be able to examine it ourselves. If I ever get a signal back, I’ll see if she can e-mail the digital photos. I have some contacts that should be able to tell us fairly quickly if the tire is feasible for a Toyota FourRu

Sal finally looked at her. His eyes were dark, brooding. They called to her in a way even she understood wasn’t healthy.

“You ever do anything other than work?” he asked.

“Never.”

He grunted, eyes returning to the road. “Me, neither.”

She smiled, but it was sadder than she intended.

She gazed out the window, watching the concrete jungle of greater Atlanta give way to flat brown fields. They came to a light, headed north onto Highway 60 and began to climb. The countryside gave way to startling ravines and towering hillsides, all choked with thick green kudzu vines. They passed luxury condos, a pristine golf course, exotic water features.

Kimberly started to co

“We’re supposed to meet Sheriff Duffy at the Olde Town Grill in the center of Dahlonega,” Sal spoke up.

“You got an address?”

“You’ve never been to Dahlonega, have you?”

She shook her head.

“Trust me, no address is required.”

She figured out what he meant fifteen minutes later, when they blew by a McDonald’s, passed through an intersection, and entered a picture-perfect postcard of nineteenth-century American architecture. Bare broadleaf trees soaring in the middle of a charming public square, dominated by a two-hundred-year-old brick courthouse, now serving as the Dahlonega Gold Museum. Quaint storefronts bore signs declaring general store, gift shop, antiques, homemade fudge. Tourists meandered down quaint red-bricked sidewalks.

“I think we just entered a time warp,” Kimberly said.

“Something like that.” Sal looped around the town square, giving her the nickel tour. The flower beds were decorated with winter greens and interspersed with items such as a stagecoach wheel, or horse drinking trough, or bleached steer’s skull. It was like visiting a movie set of the Old West, except she was still in Georgia, the state she knew best for its stifling hot summers and fresh peaches.

“In late September, early October,” Sal was explaining, “this place is lousy with leaf peepers. Can’t get a parking space to save your life. You and your husband should check it out sometime. I mean, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Sal’s voice had taken on an edge. It was enough to make her say, “Absolutely. Romantic getaway, cute bed-and-breakfast, tour of the wineries. Mac would love it.”

Sal didn’t speak again, which was just as well.

He found parking in front of a giant wooden stamp wheel that, according to the plaque, had once been used to help extract gold ore. They waited for Rainie and Quincy to park, then followed the tiny arrow to the Olde Town Grill.

Sheriff Boyd Duffy was already there, occupying half of a corner booth. He was a big bear of a man with piercing black eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. Kimberly was guessing former football player, avid hunter. Probably scared the shit out of the local kids. Good for him.

He was also black, which made him a bit of an anomaly for this part of Georgia.

Upon spotting them, he called out in a booming voice, “Special Agent Martignetti!” He heaved his large body from the booth with surprising agility. “And Special Agent Quincy, I presume.” He took her hand, shaking it without crushing it, further moving him up in her esteem. “Please, call me Duff. Like the beer from The Simpsons cartoon. Yeah, it’s a long story. Welcome, welcome. Northern Georgia’s a fair sight prettier than that smoggy ol’ city. You’re in for a treat.”

More handshakes for Rainie and Quincy, then he gestured to a larger table where they could all have a seat. Another wave of his giant arm, and a blonde with bouffant hair appeared, bearing menus and mason jars of sweetened tea. “Food here is excellent,” Duff extolled. “Fried chicken will blow your mind. Then there are the homemade ci

Kimberly couldn’t pass up a ci

“So now four busy folks like you didn’t head all the way up to the Blue Ridge Mountains just to take in our sights. What can I do for you?”

Sal took the lead: “We’re pursuing a person of interest in the disappearance of approximately ten prostitutes. We have reason to believe that the subject, an avid outdoorsman, might be familiar with this area, so we came to take a look.”