Price was still talking; I willed myself to concentrate on her words, though I was still staring at Rankin. “When Agent Morgan said you’d called him to express concerns about the conduct of the sheriff’s department in the homicide case you’re working, it occurred to us that you might be able to shed some indirect light on whether there’s official protection or involvement in any of these various criminal enterprises.”
Rankin’s eyes were locked on me like laser beams. I opened my mouth to speak, but seemed unable to get any words out. My brain was reeling with possibilities. What if the official corruption wasn’t limited to the sheriff’s department? What if it extended into the TBI—indeed, even into this very task force? Clearly I was in way over my head. “I…I…” I licked my parched lips with a thick, pastyfeeling tongue. Rankin cocked his head. “Doc, you look a little dry in the mouth there. Can I get you some water?” I nodded my head nervously. “Or maybe you’d prefer a little dab of this?” He slid something that looked like a hockey puck across the oak table toward me. I caught it, picked it up, and turned it over in my hand. It was a can of Copenhagen. My stomach began to churn. “Go on, buddy, give ’er a try,”
Rankin intoned, in the thick, good-old-boy accent he’d used at the cockfight.
“It’ll perk you right up. You look like you could use some perkin’ up.” As he finished quoting himself, he grinned broadly and winked at me. Bewildered, I scanned the other faces in the room. The other agents seemed to be studying their notepads intently, but I thought I detected some twitching mouths and twinkling eyes. Suddenly Cole Billings choked back a snort, and it hit me: these guys—these straightlaced, straight-arrow, suit-and-tie agents—
were teasing me. At first I felt a wave of indignation, but it was quickly replaced by a profound sense of relief. Rankin must have been working the cockfight undercover; hell, he’d probably even been wearing a wire, making it conceivable—likely, even—that all these agents had heard the audio of my retching into the barrel. As I pictured that, I couldn’t help but yield to the absurdity of it myself. Sliding the can of tobacco back to Rankin, I drawled,
“Hell-far, Rooster, I done give up on dip, but if you’uns got any shine, I wouldn’t care to take me a swig or two.”
The League of Justice erupted in laughter. As soon as I could make myself heard, I added, “Okay, you’ve got me dead to rights—I broke the law. I’ll talk. Just promise you’ll go easy on me.” Several of the agents were wiping their eyes. I decided maybe it was time to switch gears. “Seriously, tell me how I can help you,” I said to Price. “Then maybe we can figure out if you all can help me, too.”
“With the recent rise in cultivation, Cooke County now leads the state in marijuana production,” she began, as briskly as if she were launching a PowerPoint talk. “In addition, there’s an alarming rise in methamphetamine labs in basements and trailers up there. We have it from a well-placed source that the sheriff’s office is shielding drug traffickers, possibly even extorting protection money from them. If that’s true, we can prosecute that as racketeering.” I nodded, remembering a case in which the Justice Department had once categorized the Chicago Police Department as “a criminal enterprise.” My ears pricked up when Price added, “We’ve also heard—not just from your phone call to Agent Morgan—that in the homicide case you’re working, the sheriff might be guilty of obstruction of justice, conspiracy, possibly even murder. What are your thoughts on that?”
“Well, let me back up a ways.” I briefed the group on my involvement in the case, starting with the recovery of the body from the cave. When I described being shanghaied by Jim O’Conner, I was interrupted by a flurry of questions about the man; I gathered that O’Conner had managed to fly beneath their radar up to now. His secret road and kudzu tunnel seemed to excite them most. Did I see other vehicles? Any tracks from heavy trucks? Signs of marijuana cultivation, processing, or distribution? Containers or odors that might suggest methamphetamine production?
I answered “no” to all of those questions. “This guy is interesting, and unusual,”
I said, “and he admits he’s had some illegal business ventures in the past. But he was a war hero, and I don’t think he’s a killer.” The war hero status seemed to carry some weight. “The sheriff wants to charge him with the murder,” I conceded, “but then again, the sheriff has an old ax—a family feud sort of ax—