CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Jock and I were sitting in a small office in the Birmingham police station at ten o’clock central time, three hours after my telephone call from Bagger Dobbs. I’d called Fred Cassidy and told him we needed to go to Birmingham. We lifted off at nine and landed in the Alabama city an hour later. A rental car took us downtown.
We were sitting on folding chairs that had once been part of a set that likely included a card table. The detective was behind a metal desk painted a pea-soup green. Probably military surplus. There were no windows and no wall decorations. A fan hung from the ceiling, barely turning the air that smelled of old cigarette smoke.
Dobbs was a big man, befitting his voice. He was in his early fifties, burly, brusque, and black. He was intrigued by the possibility that the Fleming and Brewster murders were tied together and that they somehow had a bearing on the disappearance of J. D. Duncan. I told him everything we had unearthed so far.
“I got a call from Chief Lester about the time we landed here,” I said. “The slugs that killed Fleming and Desmond likely came from the same rifle. He also got an address for the copilot who we think bought the phone. The Atlanta police are trying to locate him.”
“Any ideas as to why some Asian dudes would be killing young men who’d helped build schools?”
“Maybe. Did the name Souphanouvong Phomvihana ever come up in your investigation?”
“That’s a mouthful. But, no.”
“How about Soupy?”
“No.”
“What can you tell me about Fleming’s family?”
“His dad’s a big-time lawyer downtown. Mom spends most days playing tennis at a local country club. They show up at charity balls, get their pictures in the papers. Two other kids, both older than Andy. The oldest one is a man who practices law in his dad’s firm. The other one is a woman who is married to a lawyer in the same firm. They kind of keep it in the family. Andy was planning on law school after he finished at Auburn.”
“We need to talk to Andy’s father,” I said. “How can I get hold of him?”
At eleven o’clock we were sitting in the corner office of Harrison T. Fleming, Esquire. Dodd’s office would have fit into a small corner of this one. The expansive windows on two sides gave us a view of downtown Birmingham and the surrounding hills. One wall had a large oil painting of General Lee marching through Hagerstown, Maryland, on his way to his Waterloo, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The other wall was filled with diplomas and awards.
Jock and I had been shown in by a professionally dressed woman who identified herself as Mr. Fleming’s assistant. She brought us coffee and assured us that someone would be in shortly. He was finishing up a meeting in the conference room.
I was idly scanning the ego wall, discovering that Harrison T. Fleming had graduated from the University of Alabama and its law school and had been editor in chief of the law review. He was admitted to the Alabama Bar and several federal courts including the United States Supreme Court. My eyes moved over the rows and then stopped, backed up, and homed in on one framed set. I got up and walked to the wall to get a better view. It was actually a shadow box that contained the brass insignia of the U. S. Army Special Forces and the shoulder patch showing the familiar blue background with a gold sword and three gold lightning flashes diagonally across the sword. The Airborne and Special Forces rockers topped the patch. Below that were the three golden chevrons of the U.S. Army sergeant, a blue-and-silver combat infantry badge, and ribbons denoting combat service in Vietnam.
The door opened and a tall man entered. He wore a worsted wool suit, blue with a subtle pin-stripe, a red-and-silver regimental tie, a head of iron-gray hair, and a big smile. “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen. I’m Martin Caine, Mr. Fleming’s law partner. Unfortunately, he isn’t in this morning and I haven’t been able to reach him by phone. He’s out West somewhere playing golf. When Detective Dobbs called his secretary, she assumed he’d be in today.”
I was still standing by the wall, my back to it now. I’d turned when I heard the door open. Jock had risen from his chair. “I’m Matt Royal,” I said, “and this is Jock Algren and Detective Dobbs.” I returned to my chair. Caine took the chair behind his desk.
“Mr. Caine,” I said, “I’m a lawyer in Longboat Key, Florida, and I’m looking into a murder down there for the family of the victim. There are some troubling aspects of both that murder and the murder of Andy Fleming. There seems to be a connection, and it’s important that we talk to Mr. Fleming today.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Royal, but I don’t know how to get hold of him. He hasn’t been himself since his son’s murder. He called me Saturday evening and told me that he would be out of the office this week and that I should see that his calendar was cancelled. He said something about a golf trip out West, but that’s all he told me. Apparently, I wasn’t clear to his secretary that he would be gone all week. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have made the appointment for you to come in this morning. Perhaps I can help. I was Andy’s godfather and we were very close.”
I told him about the bullets probably being from the same rifle and the fact that we have identified some Asians who may have been involved in the shooting in Florida. He knew about the Asian seen leaving the scene of his godson’s murder.
I asked, “Did you ever hear the name Souphanouvong Phomvihana or maybe Soupy?”
“No. I think I’d remember that name.”
“Andy went to Southeast Asia with the Otto Foundation last summer.”
“Yes.”
“Where did he go?”
“Cambodia.”
“Did he get to Laos at all?” I asked.
“Not to my knowledge. I think he stayed the whole six months right in the little village where they were building the school.”
“Can you think of any reason some Asian person would want to kill Andy?”
“None,” he said.
“A lawyer from Jacksonville, Florida, named Peter Garrison was killed in Longboat the same night as my client’s son. Do you know that name?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Can you think of any connection that there might have been between Andy and the Desmond boy?”
“Did you say Desmond?” he asked.
“Yes. He was twenty-three and was killed the day after his wedding.”
He paused for a moment, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help. I’d give everything I have to find the bastard who killed Andy, but I can’t see the connection between the two murders. The rifle makes it seem pretty open and shut, but as far as I know, Andy never met the Desmond boy.”
I pointed to the wall. “I see that Mr. Fleming did a little time in Southeast Asia.”
“Yes. We both did. A lifetime ago.”
“Do you know where he was?”
“Pretty much all over. He doesn’t like to talk much about it. Did you serve?”
“Yes. Fifth Special Forces out of Camp Connor at the tail end of the war.”
“That’s when I was in-country. A grunt in the First Cav,” he said, rising from his chair.
We were being dismissed. He shook hands with us and we turned to leave. As we reached the door, Caine cleared his throat. “Mr. Royal,” he said, “thank you for your service.”
I turned, looked at him and said, “Welcome home, brother.”