Deep Within: A Robert Winchester Novel (Book 2)

By Douglas Dell

After a young couple is murdered in the Brown Springs backwoods, former journalist Robert Winchester returns to Florida, this time to dig a little deeper. When he stirs things up it begins to stink and the risks escalate. The trail runs hotter by the minute as one set of circumstances throws Robert back together with old friends and into the sights of one of the largest, most violent drug syndicates in the US. This is the second book in the Robert Winchester Novel Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Dell
• Release date: Jun 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781946522962

Douglas Dell

Douglas Dell spent four years in the Deep South uncovering the dirty secrets of a drug ring and its far reaching tentacles in a small rural community that could little afford its presence. Dell lives in Florida focusing on his writing of the Robert Winchester Series of books. Deep and Dirty is his first Novel.Subscribers to my VIP list receive 20% OFF my debut eBook ONLY on Smashwords.comPlease subscribe via my website DouglasDell.com to receive your VIP coupon code!

Book preview

A ROBERT WINCHESTER NOVEL

Bulldog Publications, Est. 1980

NEW YORK, NEW YORK

Copyright

© 2020 by Douglas Dell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Published by Bulldog Publications, Est. 1980

An imprint of Tough Tribe Publishing, New York.

www.DouglasDell.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2020 Cover design:

Rusty & Winnie| for Bulldog Publications, Est.1980

Deep Within: A Robert Winchester Novel

1st ed. ISBN 978-1-946522-96-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 020938563

24 23 22 21 20 / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedicated to the patient women who live the nightmare and feature heavy in my dreams

Everything looks simple on the surface

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

Dedication

First Thought

PROLOGUE

CHAPTERS:

Chapter 1 - Blood in the Mud

Chapter 2 - The Blinkered Journalist

Chapter 3 - The Decision

Chapter 4 - A Million Miles Away

Chapter 5 - The Tired Sheriff and a Redhead

Chapter 6 - Loose Ends

Chapter 7 - The Horsey Girl’s Demise

Chapter 8 - The English Groom

Chapter 9 - Hickory and a Hard Liver

Chapter 10 - Stark Reality

Chapter 11 - A Friendly Photographer

Chapter 12 - Another Unfettered Investigation

Chapter 13 - Becky’s Day Off

Chapter 14 - The Curious Cuban

Chapter 15 - The Murderous Meeting

Chapter 16 - A Sizable Wager

Chapter 17 - Two-Faced Tyler

Chapter 18 - Russia 1 – Mexico nil

Chapter 19 - A Chance Meeting

Chapter 20 - The Hourglass

Chapter 21 - Battling Horses

Chapter 22 - The Rematch

Chapter 23 - Pastor and Coke

Chapter 24 - Drawing the Line

Chapter 25 - Off Duty

Chapter 26 - The Redhead Spa

Chapter 27 - A Face I Remembered

Chapter 28 - Stand up Sheriff Preston

END

Final Word

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

I was now sitting out of harm’s way on the slopes of Nevada’s Spring Mountains, in pleasantly rarefied air with the pinion pines, working on an investigation with a distinctly Las Vegas flavor. My view slipped off towards California, an impossible sweeping valley of Joshua trees and yuccas showed the way, a truly western vista - a writer or artist’s dream. In all irony around fifty miles in the other direction, sat the Nevada Test Site, a relic from the nuclear arms race, another truly American phenomenon, my call to arms had unexpectedly arrived from Florida again.

The first jaunt there was in different circumstances, I’d parted New York City under a cloud with the idea of finding somewhere to rest my hat, now I was heading back, on a promise I guess, looking right into the furnace, not just sifting through dying embers. This time the mud-bogging meth camps are overshadowed by an upper echelon, those handling bulk quantities of heroin.

Beyond medicinal use, illegality makes that white substance extremely valuable; the British once swapped opium for tea - that ended in war with the Chinese. Nowadays Afghanistan and South America are the favorite drug purveyors, tea doesn’t even get a look in, cash and weapons are more acceptable. When the Russian’s were active in Afghanistan they controlled the supply, the British had history there too, in what was once called The Graveyard of Empires. When the battle started again on Afghan soil the fight was about terrorism, America and her closest allies were in a virtual no-man’s-land, yet despite conflict, tragedy and loss, the poppies flourished in a land with seemingly little else to offer.

In the meantime, all eyes are on the southern border where Mexican traffickers are hauling in tons of cocaine, marijuana and mass-produced methamphetamine with increasing efficiency, whilst suburbia seems content with opiates from an apparently legitimate pharmacy. The more opportunistic folks in organized crime have immense flexibility; drugs are only part of the profit stream.

CHAPTER 1 – Blood In The Mud

It was crackling hot in the backwoods of Brown Springs County Florida, the muddy tracks had hardened momentarily, the grounded leaf mulch cooked, forcing its fragrance into the lower air. There had been a kind of drought, three searing weeks of it, the temperatures, like a spell had floated way over a hundred. The solitary sound on a light breeze was the low continuous hum of the overworked coal-fired power plant, adding to the atmosphere with a pair of belching, raging, smokestacks. As humans pushed the air-conditioning to new limits, the slash pines watched on from disdainful perches, in some clandestine conversation perhaps, happy to dominate everything else, at least until a hurricane, chainsaw or brush fire showed. The sky was daytime gray; a little pale blue appeared here and there, as if the artist was low on oil, the cerulean had disappeared the day the fossil fuel burner set up shop. The kids were on summer break, the sheriff’s department was experiencing a choked call center, mostly the general mischief of boredom, when a panicked call arrived amid the trespassing, vandalism, alcoholic binges and car theft, a strained female voice, a 911 hang up, two bodies and a burned out wreck.

With the pressure of volume, the standard shortages of the season, Deputy Anthony Jackson was working the backwoods on an open beat, long hours and this time way off his usual patrol. He was one of only a handful of black deputies in the department, the last three sheriffs decided it was better to restrict them to the Southside of Brown Springs City, a fallacy in a county with a virtually 50-50 population, even in another century too much ugly history was still swinging the bias and typical Brown Springs vote.

Jackson was outside Pete’s Quick-Stop, a busy gas station, when the call came in; he’d balanced a 42 ounce 7-up cup between his legs and was almost through a double cheeseburger and fries, they were straddling the steering wheel. He’d missed breakfast and lunch, a rare thing, Jackson loved to eat. The first meal of the day had been interrupted by an unruly domestic dispute in a nearby trailer park, lunch by a red-light running hit and run. He stuffed his face with the last of the burger, adjusted the rearview mirror, belched, checked his appearance, wiped ketchup from his chin, tossed the wrapper and remains into a trash can between the gas pumps, then cleaned the steering wheel with another paper napkin. He headed out towards the Old River Road, lights blazing, no siren, he had a headache. It followed its winding namesake for about a mile; passing fishing camps, docks, broken down trailers, mobile homes and the last of the county’s proud though fading white wood Cracker houses.

Anthony Jackson was in familiar territory as he sipped from his soda cup, a decorated former Marine Corps sergeant, he’d spent fifteen years in military service, signed up just after 9-11 and headed to basic training at the end of 2001. He was that kind of guy, heart in the right place and he’d stuck with his calling, still disheartened with the future though, he decided to try his hand at a civilian existence. Way back his parents had left their home in Jamaica, arriving in 1980’s Florida, his father, a talented engineer soon found work. Anthony was the closest thing to a true Southerner, born and raised close to Lake City, The Sunshine State’s gateway. He’d only parted Columbia County and headed to Brown Springs when he married Roselyn Carter his high school sweetheart; now a local public defender, another first, in terms of race and sex. They’d been married a year. Roselyn graduated from St. Thomas University five years earlier, worked for a charitable organization for four of those and now planned to change the world, one backward county at a time, an uphill struggle. Anthony was ready to support her dreams all the way; Brown Springs was no more than the first rung on a ladder to greater things.

The cooling system on Deputy Jackson’s Chevy was at war, his forehead sweating. He was well-built, five-ten, fond of groceries, biggish round the middle, muscly up top. He never enjoyed the sweaty Florida heat. His obsidian hair was an eighth of an inch all over, he sported a neatly styled cop moustache. The deep-brown eyes offered a kind of irate stare yet beneath sat the mind of a highly compassionate, patient man, pudgy cheeks and a double chin made him look much younger than his thirty-six years. Jackson took the blacktop highway until he reached the gravel Palmetto Avenue. Then finally turned on a rough dirt track, impenetrable in wet weather, the crooked, buckled, buckshot perforated sign, NW 18th St. showed the way in, it was far from any welcome, almost reeking of hostility. After a forty-five degree bend, the track continued to wind for about a mile, at times narrowing with overgrown trees and fallen branches, occasionally joined by piles of carelessly dumped trash, old mattresses, sofa’s, discarded appliances. Close to the end of the dirt he noticed a gathering of at least a dozen black vultures, a familiar southern sight when there’s death close at hand. They soon took to the air and surrounding trees. He crept towards the completely burned out remains of a new model Camaro, color unknown. The surrounding grass was scorched, the low palms and nearby trees had miraculously escaped the blaze; the fire seemed to have burned itself out. Before reaching the vehicle he noticed something out of place in the undergrowth, he slowed. Stretched out amid the blackberry thorns, greenbriers and lofty whispering grass was the body of a woman. On her back awkwardly placed, literally bathed in flies and fire ants. He paused, climbed out of his vehicle and approached. She was young, possibly early twenties, a blonde, shoulder length, in skintight denim shorts and a bloodied, torn white tee-shirt, a green logo in the shape of a horse sat over her left breast still held upright by a tight fitting bra, the name Lofty Pines was embroidered beneath. One of her feet was bare and badly scratched, the other sported a scuffed white nearly new expensive trainer; she’d clearly been dragged to her current resting place. As the deputy got closer he could see her crimson-red neck, bruised, blood had been seeping from her nose, mouth and eye sockets, it was now dry, surprisingly the eyelids were closed providing a combination of mystery, peace and horror rolled into one sorry picture. She’d been dead for a time. Her hands and exposed flesh had been gnawed by an animal, one of those vultures or possibly a stray dog, they were abundant here. Tan lines on her wrists and fingers showed an absent watch, jewelry. Jackson had only been on patrol for a few months now; this was his first murder scene. He was ready to call in the findings when he noticed another body a hundred or so feet in front of the Camaro, he walked up to check it out. A man, possibly twenties too; on one side most of his facial features were virtually unrecognizable and seething with fire ants, abundant in the backwoods. He’d been savagely beaten, smashed bones, a busted skull, again a broken neck, as if that wasn’t enough several gunshot wounds were plainly visible, close range, small caliber, conceivably gratuitously post mortem.

Jackson returned to his vehicle and called it in with-out further delay, the most experienced deputy with knowledge of the backwoods was Lieutenant Chip Preston, although the area was now under the command of David Philips, he’d taken over two months earlier following the suicidal death of the former captain, Don Smith, who was involved in murder and a bout of corruption. To date not even that had been thoroughly investigated. Philips was a rush appointment made by the sheriff, a kneejerk reaction to a gaping hole in his tarnished department. The new man was not a local; he’d grown up in South Florida and was unfamiliar with the peculiarities of the Brown Springs County backwoods, a den of meth labs and hideaways for just about every possible criminal act. Philips was unavailable, usually meaning a pause at The Junction Bar, a two hour break for liquid lunch at any time of day, also a trait of his predecessor. The call was finally routed through to Sergeant Bo Wright a former deputy under Smith’s command, pushed up the ranks by default, definitely ahead of schedule; he answered the call with a snappy tone. What is it?

Sir, this is Jackson, I’m on open beat, I got two DRT’s an a burned out wreck up on North West eighteen, I need assistance, he said.

Sure, any idy who they are, anythin’ on the vehicle?

No sir, there’s no tags, it pretty much gone, looks like a new model Camaro, can’t see a VIN yet, the bodies are a young female, maybe strangled and a male who’s beat up real bad with gunshot wounds.

Lieutenant Preston would’ve been the best guy to know ‘em but he’s still on vacation, standby with it, Ah’ll git things rollin’, jest don’t move or touch anythin’ in case there’s sumpm that’ll help, okay.

Sure thing sir, added Jackson. He ended the call and stayed in the vehicle with the AC on high, recycling, it wasn’t working hard enough at cooling the deputy; he got out and studied the scene once more. The loss of the young woman looked so tragic, the dead man didn’t trouble him in the same way, he’d seen some ugliness during tours to Iraq and later Afghanistan. He began to think, she was some man’s daughter, a loving mother wouldn’t see her sweet little kid again. It might’ve been a sentimental stance but she was so out of place in the sullied Brown Springs air, far away from where she should’ve been. He took out his private phone and searched the Lofty Pines name that appeared on the woman’s shirt. It was a high-end stud and equestrian facility close to Marion City, about sixty miles away, the kind of place that boarded some of the most expensive thoroughbreds, another enigma for sure. He spoke into the still air. So what the hell you doin’ up here, makes no sense? He considered calling the stable number and asking after the young woman, but decided it was better to stay out of it for now.

The deputy wasn’t alone for long, within twenty minutes they started to appear; soon the place was teeming with deputies, the ME, his investigators. Fol-lowing a brief conversation with Bo Wright, about forty-five seconds, Anthony Jackson was pushed to the side. Wright sent him away on a mundane call, a vehicle crash on the highway. Half an hour later Florida’s erratic weather decided to play up. The drought had lasted far too long, the mosquitoes were hungry, the sky opened, in a matter of minutes the dry tracks were inches deep in water, the potholes and ditches overflowed, the crime scene awash. What little chance of any decent forensics headed in the direction of the river with the empty bobbing beer bottles and cans. The bodies were hooked out as soon as possible, the wrecked Camaro towed to the pound; the investigation was on hold until the victims were identified, at the time only nature seemed to have been the true witness to a crime.

Anthony Jackson was still handling the results of a DWI crash amid the driving rain and rubbernecking fools when the entourage from the backwoods passed him by. He was disgruntled, thrown off a murder investigation scene in such an unceremonious manner angered his senses; Wright hadn’t even given him a look-in. The body of the young woman loomed large in his thoughts; he felt he could’ve added more than just a brief word to the proceedings. Sergeant Bo Wright was always abrasive and obviously keen to quickly move him well away from everything. Jackson had a bad taste in his mouth. Wright was after some private glory or covering for someone. He understood why the specialists had stepped in; to them he was simply a patrolman, out of his depth, away from the usual beat, that part didn’t bother him, he heard it all-too often, he never even gave race or prejudices a second thought, he’d spent too long in Florida for that.

That night, with Roselyn in Tallahassee at a lawyer’s conference, Jackson lay awake debating the odd scene, his guts ached and it wasn’t just from the bad fried chicken he’d eaten on the way home. First the events surrounding the bodies he’d discovered, so far apart and in the even more bizarre location, the whole picture looked close to an ambush, perhaps one explanation. The young woman’s face still consumed his thoughts. He suffered a couple more sleepless nights and a few days passed before he was due some leave. Despite the initial backwoods frenzy, empty air was all that followed, as if the murders never occurred. Hardly anything appeared in the news, just a leaked line from another deputy on a reporter’s kickback payroll. Nothing was forthcoming from the sheriff’s press office, no arrests or fresh evidence, the only thing new were the names and general background of the victims, a boyfriend and girlfriend from the horse community near Marion City traveling through Brown Springs in a new Camaro, far from the ideal vehicle for rough undulating dirt roads. Anthony decided on some form of private investigation, even then he’d be a fish out of water on the muddy shores of the murky county pond. After passing the time of day with another deputy, he learned the dead man was a heroin addict; the woman had traces of the drug in her hair and under her fingernails. Apparently they were on their way to meet someone. Immediately the word was a drug deal gone sour, but in all honesty the only thing on offer in that part of the county was homemade methamphetamine, heroin was at the high end, white gold, close to a luxurious accessory.

If Anthony Jackson was to learn anything useful or settle his toiling mind, Bo Wright and David Philips had to be avoided at all cost, the sheriff even more so. His only possibility was a quiet word with Lieutenant Chip Preston, he’d be returning to work in a week. They’d met six months earlier during a special training session and struck up a meaningful rapport. Chip even persuaded the new deputy to sign up for further education and specialize in a particular field of law enforcement. Preston, a born and raised local man was progressive and intelligent with it; Jackson was convinced he’d hear him out.

Chapter 2 – The Blinkered Journalist

There have been several words exchanged since my investigation into the drug ring and poverty in Brown Springs County, some favorable, others reeked of shock, even denial, I expected that, many people ignore problems in the hope they’ll simply vanish, in reality things were getting worse, almost quietly, much worse. The gap between rich and poor, the spread of major problems into the mythical middle class continues unbridled, it’s like living in a permanent recession, with that arrives depression and a need for more escape routes. The endless withdrawal into a new world of digital falsity only adds to the dilemma and as time goes on we all have much to fear from a doubtful future. The downside is that it’s put me out there, a face on a sitting duck. I’d shown my cards, as any good poker player will tell you, not always a wise decision. It usually means only three things; you’re showing off a win, folding in defeat or you’re a poor player heading towards a major loss. In a way I’d won but only for the short-term, others still had their slippery hands in the pot, maybe I was a fool to never finish the game, but away from the lottery I’m no great gambler. I longed to keep something up my sleeve, maybe an ace and more importantly a head on my shoulders, the joker. Perhaps my saving grace was that I’d grown up in the dog eat dog existence of New York City, in the scarcity caused by the milling crowds, dogs eat anything, there’s little to go around, a few scraps form a hearty meal, but then it really depends on just how hungry you are to begin with. After a while I was starving and hunger makes a person rethink those previously high held objectives and priorities. You soon forget about luxury and worry about bread and water. From a purely journalistic angle, the entire mechanism of media has changed forever. The big news is ironically fighting for space amongst the new kids, typos and fake hearsay, I was glad to be out of it, now I could pick and choose just who got to see my endeavors and when. Then strangely I found a few folks started knocking on my door for a unique perspective, I was still the outsider in The South, the man with an alternative take on that great enigma and a handful of useful contacts to help fill in the gaps, there were plenty. If I managed to maintain a fine balance between those I knew in law enforcement and the people working for the other team I’d perhaps sit in an envious position, not only gleaning information, but cherry picking just what I wanted or needed to share, giving a little away and holding the rest under my hat until the full facts were in.

When I start to consider the broader picture I wonder if anyone really feels safe, I mean blissfully secure in their life and surroundings? I never have, New York City kept me on edge from day one, my father’s wrong time and place murder in a Queens liquor store hardly inspired confidence either, an altruistic man, his life ended by the hands of a desperate fool, since my teens I’d spent time looking over my shoulder. For a while I’d been close to the line on a bunch of journalistic adventures, the investigative kind where you create enemies a lot faster than friends. In the end not a soul really gives a damn as to whether corruption stinks or not, half the time they vote the worst kind into office and simply hold their noses. I started out on some kind of one man quest, but soon realized most people pretend to admire that kind of thing and underneath secretly despise the ground you walk on. As time went on I had little patience for the sanctimonious types and discovered some of the juiciest stuff simply fell into my lap, it’s incredible how jealousy and hate propels folks towards an absolute lack of moral principles. They’d screw you for a dime if it made them happy. After leaving newspaper land somewhat under duress, I discovered Brown Springs County Florida and everything that went with the Deep and Dirty South, but only as a result of inheriting a tired mobile home in the midst of what the French call enfer. By some minor marvel I escaped that time, in the process parted with numerous unanswered questions. I often wondered if freedom was only provided so it could be taken away. I never sensed the true direction, how or what it was, but imagined the worse scenario, some government department with no limits to their power. I could handle a villain, then the modus operandi was straightforward; it was forever about greed, shortcuts or addiction. Whereas the authorities could dream up new laws, with a cooperative court and government do whatever they wanted to any citizen at their will, rights like privileges are easily denied, more so when everything beyond the First Amendment is forever scrutinized.

One thing was certain, if I ever returned to the Florida backwoods, I’d have to forego a social conscience, poverty was a way of life, I had to ignore it and those affected, cut it right out of the equation like a troubling cancer of the soul. As an outsider I always see things differently, quite frankly in our ever-changing world the socio-economic dynamic is widening faster than ever, even when it has always existed, perhaps from the dawn of time. It’s a tough thing