A Killing In Oil

By Robert G Rogers

Bone has the assignment of his life though he doesn't know it. It looks simple—a sexy young insurance executive, Sundae, asks him for an opinion on the death of oil executive Paul Crosby, with whom she'd had an affair. She prefers "suicide." Bone says it'll be what it is. Lives depend on Bone's decision, including his. Bonnie Mae, Paul's mother, needs money to complete a well. Investors and creditors threaten her. Paul's lifestyle doesn't help. He's never met a woman he didn't want to bed, married or otherwise. Troubling is a missing box of explosive string shot used in drilling wells, a terrorist weapon in the wrong hands. Did the thief kill Paul? And, there's Preacher Abraham, Bikers for God Church, trying to con Bonnie Mae out of money she doesn't have. Bone is put to the test as he scrambles for the answers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781611606300

Book preview

A KILLING IN OIL

by

Robert G. Rogers

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Published by

WHISKEY CREEK PRESS

Whiskey Creek Press

PO Box 51052

Casper, WY 82605-1052

www.whiskeycreekpress.com

Copyright Ó 2013 Robert G. Rogers

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-61160-630-0

Cover Artist: Harris Channing

Editor: Dave Field

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

My brother Curtis Rogers and my late wife Carolyn Rogers without whose support the book would never have been written.

Chapter 1

Lawton’s business man of the year! Paul Crosby! a prim lady in tailored gray, Lawton’s mayor, proclaimed to those gathered in the country club banquet hall. An honor given because he had done the most to promote economic development in the small Mississippi town during the past year. Lawton sat on top of an oil field abandoned years earlier. Crosby’s promise to restore the field to meaningful productivity, meaning money to those with royalty interests, had gotten the town’s juices flowing and him the coveted award. Applause, whispers and comments rolled about the hall as attendees shared opinions about his selection. It was nearing Christmas, a chilly fifty degrees outside but forced air units kept the dining hall warm and cozy.

Crosby pushed back from his chair at the head table, and strode toward the lectern. An easy smile showed on his broad, handsome face. Built like a tight end and looking fit enough to play, he stood an inch or so over six feet and wore a dark suit tailored to perfection. Not a strand of the dark hair that marked his prominent forehead was out of place. He thanked the mayor for her introduction, said the expected about how humbled he was to have been selected and how the other nominees were equally deserving. It drew applause.

Kathy Sullivan and I shared a table with another couple near the front whose names were swallowed in the din of the dining room. Kathy wore black for the affair, as did many of the ladies in the hall; either that or something in shades of gray with red or green trim and white blouses. It was a formal occasion for the well-to-do in town so they came in their best. The men dressed to match, dark gray or black, but without the trim. Their ties added some color.

Kathy was my romantic interest in Lawton—slightly rounded face, pretty enough, and without the burden of an ego. Her hair, like her eyes, was golden brown, and brushed her shoulders. I didn’t mind at all that she had a slim, tennis figure with extras that filled the right places with just enough. But mostly I liked what she said and the things she liked that I liked. And, above all, I liked that she liked me, because I sure as hell liked her.

Crosby launched into his speech. First, a little education...something to take home to the kids. He smiled with a gesture. Petroglyphs means paintings on rocks. Petro for rock and glyph for painting. Oleum means oil. So, petroleum means oil that comes from porous rock. In the Lawton field, we’re fracturing that rock to stimulate the flow of the oil locked inside.

He made eye contact with the crowd and added technical details and cited the number of times his company had been successful doing that over the years.

Probably would have made a decent lawyer, I thought, and certainly a successful politician.

It’s interesting that a man named Drake drilled the first well in Titusville, Pennsylvania in the mid-eighteen hundreds. Unfortunately for him, there wasn’t much demand for the black gooey stuff at that time, so he died broke. Then came John D. Rockefeller and others with their vision for the future. Use the black gold to fuel an industrial revolution! It did and the revolution hasn’t stopped yet! He reached out with open palms and waited for the applause.

I took the interval to whisper to Kathy, Is that Crosby’s wife? My head did a quick nod toward the head table, where a blonde, dressed in low-cut black, sat in the chair next to the one Crosby had vacated. Her face was turned toward Crosby at the lectern. No smile. No doubt she’d been called beautiful when she was younger and was still very attractive; good figure from what I could see. Tiny patches of light reflected off her diamonds.

Kathy had a look on her face that said she wasn’t sure, but our lady friend for the evening had heard my question and knew the answer. She bent over the table and said, That’s Marilyn, his third. Miss Petroleum, eighteen years ago. A trophy wife. He collects them. Better at that than keeping them. Her husband gave her a keep it low hand gesture. She had told us earlier that she worked for one of the other nominees so a few snipes at Crosby weren’t unexpected.

Peak Oil is today’s topic of conversation around the world, Crosby said. How much oil is left? Energy gurus say we’ve used half the two trillion barrels we started with. They say we’re using over eighty million barrels a day right now and that consumption will grow as China and India demand more for their economies! And those gurus say we’re going to run out of oil in thirty years. Thirty years. Scary huh?

This is where he gets in a plug for investors, our female table partner whispered. Always hustling for money. His mother runs the company. Bonnie Mae. She bobbed her head in the direction of an older, stern-faced woman in a Christmas-green suit with dark piping two tables over. There were no jewels on her neck or hands. Her lined face was hard, without makeup, and had a look about it that told of hard times. Someone whose past held no joy worth remembering. Her gray hair was cut short. She sat without expression, her hand clasped on the table, evidently concentrating on something besides what her son was saying.

Whether the experts are right in their predictions or not, one thing seems clear—demand will exceed supply and oil prices will certainly go up. Bad news to consumers. Good news to investors. He lifted his hands with a gesture to those in the hall as if to say, All of you. He ended with an optimistic appraisal of renewed drilling activity all over the world and a final thanks for being selected as Lawton’s Businessman of the Year.

We said goodbye to our tablemates and joined other attendees in a hurried rush toward the exit doors. The room became a loud mix of multiple conversations blended with the noise of moving people. The Country Club staff stood in open doorways waiting to clean up. They wanted to go home, too.

As we approached a door, I heard Seth Campbell call from somewhere behind us. He and his wife, Beth, had been seated at the head table with other dignitaries. Bishop, Kathy! Got time for a nightcap?

I’d worked for Seth’s company when I first came to Lawton and later became involved in his unsuccessful campaign to become governor. Over the period we became good friends, often played tennis and fished together. Later, with a little help from one of his associates, I resumed consulting with banks, basically what I’d done in California before moving to Mississippi.

I anticipated a nightcap, but one snuggled next to Kathy in front of my fireplace, enjoying the intoxicating fragrance that only she possessed. I hesitated half a second before saying, Sure. Sounds like fun. Kathy squeezed my arm and flashed me an understanding smile. How long would a nightcap take anyway?

In the parking lot, I caught the end of something dire Paul Crosby said into his cell phone. Damn mud pump failed? Yeah, I know, Red, I know! That kid, Jerome, was supposed to watch the damn thing! Okay, okay. Okay! Stay cool, man! How many times have we ever needed two? Not your fault! Okay?

Frustration showed clearly on his face. He flipped the phone shut and shouted, Mama! Damned mud pump failed. Red’s trying to raise the drill stem before the mud sets up.

How deep are we? the stern faced woman turned and asked.

He replied, Deep enough.

Son of a bitch! I’ll go on over to the well, she said. I don’t want to have to redrill the damn thing.

Hang on. I’ll come with you. He threw his coat and tie into the trunk of the Jag beside him, grabbed an old leather jacket from the floor and pulled it on.

He turned to the blond woman by his side and said, Marilyn, I’m going to the well with Mama. You— He hesitated a second. Uh, take the car on home." He handed her the key. She bobbed her head without reply and opened the car door to get inside.

Odd, I thought in passing, that she showed no facial expression about her husband’s disaster.

Had to be a disaster if I read both Crosbys’ alarm accurately.

* * * *

Kathy and I felt the chill of the evening air as we hurried along the walkway to the front door of the Campbell’s old Tudor mansion. Seth’s family built the home during the early days of the timber boom. It featured a turret entry, diamond pane windows and a Gothic arch doorway with a brick and wood facade. The faint smell of a wood fire en route held a promise of warmth. A wafting whisper of Kathy’s perfume made me think of a fire in my fireplace, later that evening.

Beth greeted us. Seth’s getting a fire going in the study. Her dark hair showed more and more gray each year; her face more lines. Still though, she’d managed to avoid the curse of some women as they aged—pounds that never seemed to go away.

We followed her past a tall, decorated spruce tree in the center of the vaulted foyer into a small study on the left that was decorated with just enough red and green to give notice to the Christmas season. Seth kneeled on the hearth and poked at a fireplace to stoke up the beginnings of a fire. His hair was a fatherly salt-and-pepper and lay in wavy clusters. Although he looked younger, he was well into his sixties, a few years older than I was. His company, Campbell Enterprises, developed factory outlet centers.

I’ll have this thing going in a minute, he said. Throw your coats someplace. Beth’s whipped up something for us to drink.

The fire sounded a reassuring crackle and began to pour heat into the room.

By then, Beth appeared with a tray of steaming mugs. Irish coffee made with sugar substitute and decaffeinated. So, we can drink all we want without guilt, she announced. A whiff of coffee and whiskey in the steamy mist gave a hint of the taste that was to come.

We enjoyed the brew in easy chairs, watched the flames flicker in the fireplace and chatted about the ceremony. Beth was on the selection committee. She’d favored another man, but was outvoted.

Kathy recited the conversation we heard in the parking lot, about the mud pump. His mother was concerned about having to drill the hole again if they can’t get—I think they said—the drill stem out.

That could be a problem, Seth said. The pump circulates mud in the hole to keep the drill bit cool and bring up cuttings. If they can’t circulate the mud, sticking the drill string is a real possibility.

I imagine Bonnie Mae’s working the platform, Beth said. "Some people on the committee felt she deserved the award, not him. He’s a talker, not a worker. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wrote his speech."

Come on, Beth, be fair. Just because your man didn’t win. Seth smiled to let her know he wasn’t being critical. Paul knows his way around a drilling rig. He’s a trained geologist.

Beth returned his smile, but didn’t back down. When he was at State, a frat story came out about how his mother wrote all his papers and did his take-home quizzes. He’s admitted as much...halfway.

Didn’t somebody complain? Kathy asked.

Hardly, she said. They wanted her to take theirs.

Seth told us, You know Bonnie Mae’s a petroleum engineer. Graduated from State. Wildcatted in Texas for a while. Did okay. Married Grant Crosby while she was in Mississippi. They had Paul.

All news to us.

Beth added, "Now, Grant Crosby was one good looking man! Story is that women would come up to him on the street and give him their phone numbers. Paul looks just like him and, from what I hear, has some of the same problems with women."

Some men wouldn’t call it a problem, I said.

Ha! Kathy said. If they were married to me they would! Handsome as he must have been, why’d he marry Mrs. Crosby? From what I saw tonight, she’s as plain as a board.

Money, gossip has it, Beth replied. She’d accumulated a modest nest egg and some oil properties.

What happened? Divorce? I asked. Mrs. Crosby sat alone at the Country Club.

Seth answered for Beth. They went back to Texas, where the big oil action was then. I don’t know what happened, but when she came back to Lawton, she came back alone...well, with Paul.

Somebody told me Grant died, Beth said.

Bonnie probably killed him, Kathy said with enough lightness to let us know she was joking.

When the conversation began to drag, Kathy and I thanked them for the drinks and headed home. I was half tempted to drive by Crosby’s drill site to see if they’d gotten the drill stem out of the hole, but Kathy reminded me of the time. At my age, the later it got, the more my body thought a bed was for sleeping.

The next morning as I drove Kathy home, we heard the news on the radio. Paul Crosby was dead! He’d fallen from the top of the derrick in the early morning hours. There were no other details. Last night he was full of life and celebrating an honor. Now, one blink of time later, he was dead. It didn’t seem possible.

After dropping her off, I stopped by Chief Jenkins’ office to see what he knew. A small town was like one big family. Nosing around in everybody else’s business was expected. I figured I’d become acclimated.

His office was in the City Hall building perched on a little hill near the center of town. He’d become one of my closest friends after an acrimonious start. The first time we met, right after I’d moved to Lawton, he was ready to throw me in jail for putting a slug in the shoulder of an oil field roughneck. When he discovered that I’d stopped the guy’s harassment of Seth’s granddaughter, he thanked me for my intervention and welcomed me to Lawton.

The blare of Christmas music met me at the City Hall door. Irene, the chief’s secretary, kept her radio tuned to it all day long. The police chief’s offices were near the rear of the City Hall entry lobby though most police business, the day to day stuff, took place in an annex building a few blocks away.

Go on in, Mr. Bone. I think he’s expecting you.

He is?

Bishop, he shouted as I entered. His official coat hung on a wall-mounted peg. The white shirt he wore was freshly starched. His wife, June, saw to it that he didn’t embarrass himself in public.

You’ve got an angle on Paul Crosby’s death, right?

Jenkins was about my age, a little older, and height, six feet, but heavier. Not many years before social security would begin to look good to him. What hair he had was almost white. His rough, broad face bore the impact of deep worry lines.

No angle. I took a hard, ladder-back chair in front of his desk. Just curious. I saw him at the awards banquet last night. After it was over, I heard him tell his mother they had to get the drill stem out of the hole before it got stuck.

He grunted. I skipped the damn thing this year. Didn’t miss trying to stay awake during the speeches.

I laughed politely.

The glass in the lone window behind his chair had yellowed to the point that no matter how bright the sun was outside, only a blur ever made it inside. Framed awards and newspaper photos of the chief with and without dignitaries hung askew on the walls. He’d been chief a long time.

You didn’t miss much by skipping, I said.

I was sure you’d be investigating his murder. That always gives me indigestion.

The chief had never been happy with the investigative side of my consulting business. Half the time we ended up at loggerheads.

He was murdered?

Hell no, at least not that I can tell! But every time somebody turns up dead, you think it’s murder. It looks to us like he fell off the drilling derrick between one and two this morning.

Fell huh?

Yeah, accident. Maybe some question of suicide, he said. He’d been drinking and left some scribbles on a note pad in the trailer.

What’d it say?

Not a hell of a lot. Just ‘shit, shit, shit,’ a page full of doodles, lots of dollar signs with minuses in front of them, one ‘son of a bitch’ and one ‘bastard.’ The ‘bastard’ was bigger than the rest of it. Looked like he’d been at it for a while. That’s about it. He’d emptied a bottle of bourbon.

Not a strong case for suicide, I said.

No, but there’s insurance—his mother told me—so it might become an issue. Most likely will.

I said, I guess you’ll get an autopsy?

Sure, but other than confirm that he was sloshing in booze— He shrugged with a grimace that said he didn’t really know. I don’t expect much else. We took pictures. Nobody else was around. He’d sent everybody home. Red, their tool pusher, was at the site. He lives in a trailer but didn’t hear anything.

Why’d he climb the derrick at that time of night? Hell, it was cold.

Drunk, I guess, Jenkins said and began to flip papers on his desk, my cue to leave.

At the door, I turned and asked, Did they get the drill stem out of the hole? That’s what got Crosby out there. They were afraid the drill stem would freeze up in the hole.

Yeah, they got it out, he said. Listen, if it warms up, I might come out for a little fishing.

It was too cold to fish but, like me, he enjoyed the relaxing solitude of watching the creek run. I owned twenty-two acres and an old log cabin perched on a bank overlooking Indian Creek where we fished, weather permitting. I often sat on the back porch in the afternoon, when I wasn’t engaged by some bank, and watched the beavers in a little pond they’d made in the delta on the far side of the creek.

Chapter 2

I had draped the last Christmas decoration onto the small pine that Kathy shamed me into putting up when a car crunched to a stop out front. A slender woman with shoulder-length auburn hair charged up my front porch steps, briefcase in hand.

Mr. Bone, I’m Sundae Hanson from South Regional Life. She extended her hand and gave me her I’m-here-to-sell-you-a-life-insurance-policy smile. She was young and perky cute, with a face full of freckles and probably sold lots of policies. In her thirties; early thirties. Had the look of a fresh rose, still in its full glory.

Seeing the look on my face, she laughed. I’m not here to sell you anything, Mr. Bone. My company wants to hire you.

Come in, I said. Fees were always welcome but especially just then.

My income came from consulting with state banks about their problem loans, primarily commercial loans. They hired me to work magic and get the loans back to paying as agreed. Being a lawyer helped, but it wasn’t essential. Mostly window dressing for show.

Referrals had been slow since Thanksgiving, and would stay that way after the New Year. Bills created a ripple from the bottom up. Families couldn’t pay merchants, who consequently couldn’t pay suppliers, who therefore couldn’t pay banks. That’s when the banks called me. I tried to remember my last call from a bank. It had been before the awards banquet. A week without a fee assignment was my nervous threshold. Only a few days stood between me and worry about where my next meal would come from.

We sat at the table in the kitchen. She removed a file folder from her briefcase and laid it on the table. She left an attention-getting fragrance in her wake and it didn’t quit when she sat down. Had to be expensive, like the gray suit she wore.

We carried two term life policies on Paul Crosby’s life. One payable to his company in the amount of a million and a half, and another in the amount of one million payable to his wife. Actually, that policy is payable to his estate but as far as we know, she’s in line to get it as the surviving spouse, unless he had a will.

That’s sizable.

Yes, she said, I sold him the policies about a year and a half ago.

Good commission? I asked.

It seemed so at the time, she said with a twist of her head that suggested there might be some doubt about it now.

So, what can I do for you? I hardly knew the man. In fact, I didn’t.

We’re investigating the cause of death, she said. There’s some question about it.

I nodded.

It could even be murder, she said.

How do you figure?

There were bruises on his face and body and his knuckles were cut. A fight perhaps?

He fell. Lots of girders to hit—

Right, but did he fall, was he hoisted up and dropped, or did he jump?

I said, Chief Jenkins speculated that he likely climbed up and fell. He’d been drinking.

I know. So, we have three possibilities, all with different consequences to the company. Suicide would void payment on the policies since both were under two years old and the public policy provisions would void payments to a beneficiary guilty of murdering him.

"Did the policies contain double indemnity for accidental death?’

She nodded.

So, suicide or murder would be the preferred cause of death, I said.

That’s why I’m here. She pulled a check from the folder, and slid it across the table.

A retainer. You can bill for your hours. This is important, and there’s some urgency to get it resolved. Paul was highly leveraged. Means he needed cash. Both Mrs. Crosbys are putting pressure on the company to pay up. His mother and his wife.

I looked at the check...the dollar figure. It was a good retainer.

You have a reputation for getting things done, she added. Some folks around town say you can see people’s thoughts.

I opened my mouth to laugh, but she interrupted with a toss of her head and a quick hand wave.

We want to know if you find anything that says it wasn’t an accident. No matter how slight. We’re talking about a lot of money. Anything that muddies the waters can—

I finished her thought. Lead to negotiations.

Right! And negotiations lead to compromise settlements. She winked. People say you stick with a job until you get results. Jackass stubborn, somebody said.

I did laugh at that. I can’t guarantee a particular result. I just try to sort out the facts.

The company’s not asking for a particular result. We have a preliminary determination as to cause, but because of the size of the policies and the pressure on the company, we want an independent opinion. We’re conducting our own investigation.

Good. I can give you an opinion. Would you notify the parties? I doubt they’ll give me the time of day unless you tell them I’m standing between them and their claim.

Were you at the awards banquet?

I was.

I guess you met or saw the Crosbys, Paul and Marilyn? Bonnie Mae, Paul’s mother?

I had.

You’ll certainly want to talk to them. Also Alan Martin. His money was backing the well. He and Paul didn’t always agree. Paul liked to do things his way. To hell with the investors. And Martin wanted things done his way. He thinks all his investments should pay off...big. Both cut from the same cloth. Competitive as hell.

That’s a classic recipe for disagreements, wars even.

Paul was having trouble with old man Gray, too. Jeff Gray. Has a son, Harvey. Runs the business now, pretty much. The Grays supplied equipment and materials to the Crosbys. On credit. Paul liked it. Gray didn’t. You might want to include him in your rounds. I’ll let ’em all know as soon as I get back to the office, she said, and handed me a pile of papers from the folder, her card stapled to the first sheet.

Copies of the policies and the application forms, she said. I’d rather not give you our preliminary reports. If we end up in court, I don’t want some lawyer claiming your investigation was prejudiced by our conclusions. I understand that you know the Lawton police chief, Jenkins. You can probably get copies of his reports?

Most likely.

Good. She stood, fixed her sparkling blues on mine, and gave me a flash of the smile that kept her at the top of the commissions list. A pretty girl, full of youthful confidence. I felt sorry for the man who tried to pin her down.

How well did you know Paul Crosby? I asked. She’d called him Paul, not Mr. Crosby as I would have expected.

Well enough. She smiled, and touched a finger to my nose. It was crooked from a fight I’d had so long ago I couldn’t remember the details. She looked me in the eyes while she did it. Yep, I bet she sold one hell of a lot of insurance. But I only knew how he lived, not how he died. That’s your job. Take as long as you need, but we’d like it resolved in three weeks.

A little pressure, but it beat the hell out of the phony indulgences I often used to stave off a holiday depression. And, I sure as hell wouldn’t be nervous about income for a while.

At the door, she turned and said, By the way, Paul was getting ready to divorce Marilyn.

Was he depressed about it?

She laughed. "Not that I could tell. She might have been."

Her car disappeared around a bend in my driveway that snaked through tall trees to a country road connecting to the Interstate. Limbs, from hardwoods mostly, formed a gray canopy over the driveway, actually two clay-gravel ruts separated by tuffs of grass. In the summer, the hardwoods leafed out and turned the canopy green and kept the drive covered in shade.

I sat at the table to organize my thoughts. I’d consult with the chief, of course, and talk to Crosby’s mother and wife and anybody at the drill site that night. Martin and Gray, as well. Murder or suicide? Was either a real possibility? Why would a man as successful as Paul Crosby appeared to be want to kill himself? Who would want to