Death Happens

By Caleb Lott

Private Detective Mark Hatchett is back. This time he searches for the truth about a very random and very out-of-the-ordinary homicide.

Inspired by a true casein Death Happens, Hatchett is hired by wealthy Helen Lancaster to get to the bottom of the death of her adult son, Tony, a leftover child of the sixties who wanted to go his own way. Was he killed in jail, by druggies, the mob, or maybe even a voice from the past? Hatchett is paired with Sheriffs Investigator Priscilla Duncan, an obstinate and impetuous young woman searching for respect, and the two run out each lead one by onewhile trying to keep from getting killed.

Death Happens is about the contrast between conflict and peace, stress and relief, and wisdom and folly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504901338

Caleb Lott

Caleb Lott, who was once a homicide detective, is a pseudonym for the author, who lives and writes in Alabama.

Book preview

Chapter 1

1978

Mark Hatchett sat hunched over a cup of coffee in the corner booth in the back of Walt’s Diner on 2nd Avenue and examined the dying embers at the end of the Tiparillo that he rolled the back and forth between his thumb and the first two fingers of his right hand. He watched closely as the ash hung precariously on the end of the thin stogie. At a half inch long, he wondered how long it would be before it finally fell off onto the table.

It was ten o’clock on a Saturday morning in the early summer in the city of Mauvilla, on the coast, in southwest Alabama. Outside the sun was beaming, and already the temperature was uncomfortable.

Inside, Hatchett’s mood wasn’t nearly as bright. As he looked down at the fire, he couldn’t help but think back to another time, in a jungle on the other side of the world. He was smoking a cigar, not unlike the one in his hand, and the face of a Viet Cong prisoner, angry, defiant, and smug, looked up at him. A South Vietnamese translator asked the question again, and the prisoner listened then spat on Hatchett’s uniform blouse. Hatchett took the fire end of the cigar and put it out on the insolent man’s left cheek.

It was a memory, one of many that often came to him. It usually took only a sight, a sound, or an odor to transport him back to a time and place just a few years previous. This morning, it was the smoke from the cigar and the sight of the glowing tip that did it.

The fire that marred the prisoner’s cheek did nothing to amend the recalcitrant man’s attitude. A South Vietnamese officer who had witnessed the entire incident, and who was eager to curry favor with his American allies, walked forward with his pistol drawn, and after saying something loud and angry in Vietnamese, discharged a round into the stubborn young man’s left temple.

Hatchett closed his eyes tightly and wiped his face with his free hand. Once a memory was at the surface like this it usually stuck with him for a while. He tried to keep them pressed down, and for the most part he could, but when they came, he got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he had to put his mind somewhere else quickly or his thoughts would cause him to spiral into a deep depression.

This morning, Hatchett’s musings were interrupted by the sight of JoAnn Ward as she walked through the glass door of the restaurant and made her way toward his booth. She looked smart in jeans and a peasant shirt, with leather sandals. Her hair was long, dark, and straight, and it framed her round face. It was a look that Hatchett hadn’t seen before in her; an earthy look, a relaxed look.

She was smiling as she got to his table. He put the cigar out in a glass ash tray and tried to muster a smile of his own.

Hey, she said while sliding into the booth. How ya’ doin’?

Her smile was broad. It was the smile of someone meeting an old friend that she hadn’t seen in a while.

"How are you doing? What’s it been, a year?" he said.

Close to it. I’m good. I’m good.

How’s your arm?

He had gotten right to it. It was a question that would have been hanging over them until one of them mentioned it. He just did it first to get it out of the way.

She pulled back the long sleeve covering her right arm and displayed the crook of her elbow. Then she ran her index finger over a five inch long raised scar.

It tingles a little every now and then, especially in humid weather, but all in all it’s fine. I wear long sleeves a lot. She paused. Just seeing it brings up bad memories. She paused again. How ’bout you?

Hatchett held his left arm aloft and showed her the eight inch blemish on the underside of his own forearm. Just another war wound.

She looked him in the eye. We had a time didn’t we?

He nodded. We sure did.

The two hadn’t seen each other since shortly after their confrontation with the serial killer, Lewis Hart. It was a confrontation that almost left Ward an amputee. It was also when she had decided to quit work in law enforcement.

He paused. So, what are you doing now? His question was designed to get her away from the memory.

Oh, I’m in law school. She smiled and nodded. I started this last semester at the University.

Hatchett’s brows went up and his head went back. Wow. I’m surprised.

I thought you would be. It was a hard thing to do, leaving the Sheriff’s Department. I mean, I felt like such a quitter. But when I calmed down and looked at it, well, let’s face it, I just wasn’t built for it all … the violence, I mean.

He nodded. Sure.

So, I looked around for another place to serve, and I decided I could be a lawyer and still help some people.

Personal injury?

Oh, no. I’m going to try to get on at the DA’s office. I want to put the bad people away.

He smiled. Hey, it’s a growth industry.

She chuckled. You’re right. That’s clever. I’ll have to remember it.

He nodded. Well, anyway, it looks like it agrees with you. He paused. What do your parents think?

Oh, you know. My father still wishes I’d choose medicine; but mother’s ecstatic. She won’t have to worry as much anymore.

Hatchett paused and looked at the table. Do they blame me?

Ward smiled and shook her head. No. They knew it was a dangerous job. Mainly, they just think I was in over my head.

She stopped and looked at his face. His visage had never looked this sad, this old, and this conciliatory. She had expected snide remarks about ‘mouthpieces,’ ‘slip and falls,’ and ‘ambulance chasing,’ but he looked tired; too tired and too whipped to fire back at her.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds. She looked around the room at the dingy floor and the less than shiny aluminum appointments.

She shook her head and smiled. Same old Walt’s.

He nodded. Yep, same old Walt’s.

She tilted her head. Is something wrong?

He shook his head. No. It’s just been a long year. I’m tired. He flicked a stray ash tray off the table.

That’s all?

What did you want to talk about? he said changing the subject.

Oh, yeah. She perked up. Well, two afternoons a week, I work at McMakin and Hardesty, downtown. I run errands, do some clerical work, and just generally try to absorb what it’s like to be a legal eagle, you know? Anyway, the other afternoon, one of our clients came in to talk about a death in her family, and Mr. Hardesty let me sit in on the consultation. I recognized it as a case that could use a good PI.

Oh, you did, did you.

Sure.

He chuckled. My own little pimp. Does Hardesty know you’re procuring for a washed up old shamus like me?

Oh, come on. You’re not washed up; and you’re certainly not old. She paused. And yes, he knows. I talked about it with him, and he recommended that the client give you a call.

He pursed his mouth and nodded. With any luck, he could take the case and dispose of it in a hurry. For all her good looks and pleasantness, in a strange way, he didn’t really want to spend any more time with JoAnn Ward than he had to. She reminded him of something too.

What happened? he said.

Our client’s son died … in jail.

Chapter 2

JoAnn Ward recounted to him the circumstances surrounding the death of Anthony Lancaster II, the only son of Anthony and Helen Lancaster. Hatchett thought hard, but he didn’t recognize the name; which was strange because it sounded like money, and he thought he knew most of the money names in town.

As Ward told it, Tony Lancaster, age, around thirty five, was taken to jail for writing bad checks. After he got there, for seemingly no reason whatsoever, he had fallen ill and was taken to the hospital. He died a day and a half later.

What was the cause of death? Hatchett said.

Skull fracture.

Who arrested him?

She smiled. Deputies from the Manipi County Sheriff’s Office.

How convenient.

Yeah, right. They got a call to go to Methodist Hospital to investigate an unruly patient. When they got there, Lancaster was drunk and acting crazy. They checked him and found two outstanding warrants.

Did he have the fracture when he came to the hospital?

They don’t know. He wouldn’t sit still for an x-ray. All they could see was a cut on his forehead.

Sounds like your lawsuit is with the hospital.

Oh, believe me, that’s coming.

Hatchett looked down, trying to think. So the dead guy’s mother thinks he was killed in jail, and she wants to sue the Sheriff. Is that the picture? ‘Cause if it is, I’m not sure I want to get involved, he said.

I understand. But at least talk to her. Help her find out what happened to her son, if you can. I kinda’ felt sorry for her, not knowing and all. She paused. Besides, she’s rich.

He paused and looked at her. "Do you know what happened to him?"

She stopped to think; now forced to verbalize what her intuition had told her as she sat and listened to Helen Lancaster’s story.

I don’t know, but I feel like he was probably hurt before he got to the hospital. If that’s true, then eliminating the possibility of injury at the jail is just perfunctory. After that, the case just becomes a good, ole fashioned, whodunit; something you’re good at.

Wow. Perfunctory. What does that mean?

She smiled. Don’t make fun of me. I really do think you can help.

He looked at her. So, what’s in it for you?

A smile began to form in the left corner of her mouth. Still think I’m mercenary?

You’re still female.

She shrugged her shoulders. I don’t know. Maybe it gets me out of the copy room every once in a while; maybe later, I have a job at the firm if I want it; maybe, just maybe, I get a little bit of respect from the people I work for.

Still chasing respect?

She said nothing, and he didn’t speak for five seconds. Then he said, "Okay. I’ll talk to her. But if she doesn’t like what I find out, or if she doesn’t like the way I work, don’t let it ruin your reputation."

Oh, I won’t.

He reached into the inside pocket of the khaki colored safari vest that he wore over his light blue, short sleeved, oxford shirt and pulled out two more cigars. He extended one toward her.

Tiparillo?

She smiled and shook her head while thinking of that ad: ‘Is it polite for a man to offer a Tiparillo to a lady?’

Hatchett was back in his office thirty minutes later. He leaned back in his leather upholstered swivel chair and closed his eyes. He was in his thinking position trying to form a preliminary plan.

Tony Lancaster got into a fight somewhere. It was either before he got to the hospital, on his way to jail, or in his cell. He took a blow to the head that fractured his skull, and he died, slowly, and no doubt painfully; probably from a brain bleed.

Hatchett could imagine the ache that had engulfed his head. He had felt something like it before, himself; the throbbing in his temples, the pounding in his ears, the stars shooting before his eyes; even Lancaster’s hair would’ve hurt. He picked up the phone and called his answering service.

Hey, Peaches. What’s shakin’?

‘Peaches’ was his moniker for Marilyn, the operator that he had never seen but who sounded to him to be very attractive.

Oh, nothing, baby. How about you?

I’m feelin’ a little down today. Say something to get me going.

Ooooo. I think I know how to get you up and about.

That did it. He chuckled.

No, silly, she giggled. I got a call for you.

Another hope dashed. He picked up a pen. Go ahead, he said with exaggerated disgust.

A Helen Lancaster called. She recited the number. She sounded as if she’d been crying.

Yep. She just lost someone very near and dear to her.

Who?

Her son.

Then she’s got a right to cry.

Well, we’re gonna see if we can dry her tears.

Chapter 3

Two hours later, after a sullen phone call and some directions, Hatchett drove his blue, 1974 Mercury Cyclone onto the circular drive in front of a three-story, brick Federal in the nicest neighborhood in West Mauvilla. The wrought iron fence around the manicured yard screamed money and insecurity.

The doorbell was answered by a short, thin, gray haired man who wore a dark suit and a white vest.

Yes? the man said.

My name’s Hatchett. I’m here to see Ms Lancaster.

He snorted and stood aside. Come in. I’ll see if she’s available.

Hatchett walked through the door and stood in a mirrored foyer. He looked into the glass and checked his appearance. In his safari vest, khakis, and desert boots, he looked and felt somewhat out of place. Hatchett always dressed casually and always, even when visiting clients in rich neighborhoods, carried his forty five caliber pistol in a holster on a belt in the small of his back.

The short, gray man led him into a sitting room off the foyer and told him to wait. He said that, ‘Madam’ would be in shortly. Hatchett spent the interlude perusing the book collection on the shelves near the door.

Helen Lancaster entered the room ten minutes later. Hatchett looked up as the door opened, and he replaced an obviously expensive copy of Moby Dick to the location where he’d found it.

Mr. Hatchett? she said.

Ms Lancaster.

She was five feet tall and round, a matronly-looking woman whose hair was graying and coiffed in a late sixties style that was held in place by a can of hairspray. Her dress was dark blue, but looked black, and hung halfway between her knees and her ankles. Her oversized feet were poured into short heeled pumps, and a single strand of pearls encircled her neck. In Hatchett’s mind, she looked for all the world like Aunt Bea.

Have a seat, she said. He noticed that she was clutching a white lace handkerchief.

Hatchett parked himself in a club chair across from a short couch. Helen Lancaster sat down on the edge of the couch and crossed her legs at the ankle. A coffee table was between them.

My attorney recommended you; actually, one of his interns, a Chinese woman. Ward was her name, I think. She said that you were very competent and could help me. Her voice was an alto, but she spoke softly and with a southern accent.

He nodded but said nothing.

My son, Anthony, has deceased. She paused to choke down a sob. It happened while he was incarcerated in the County Jail. She paused again, this time there was no sob, only an embarrassed look. Oh, they took him to the hospital, but …

Again he said nothing.

I suppose I should fill you in on some background. She said. "Anthony is my eldest. He’s thirty seven years old, and he’s divorced. He lives, or lived, on the outskirts of town, on the north side, near Johnston.

"My attorney did some research and told me that he was arrested at the Glenwood Methodist Hospital for some silly little thing – some checks that bounced, I think – and he was taken down and, how did he say it, put on docket? All this happened last Friday.

I’m told that he took ill the next morning, was taken back to the hospital that afternoon, which would have been Saturday, and … he died on Sunday.

She stopped again and began trying to shred the lace handkerchief in her hands. She alternately looked to her left and then to her right, and then up at the ceiling.

Hatchett tried to gauge her mindset. She was either overcome with grief, or she was so embarrassed to be in this position that the palpability of the sting of embarrassment that she felt at having to relate her circumstances to him was even greater than the pain of her grief. He felt the latter was probably more correct.

I don’t know what happened to him, but I do know one thing. If something happened in that jail, the government will try to cover it up, and I want them to pay.

Hatchett spoke. What makes you think that?

It’s the government. As an institution, they will always do what’s in their self-interest.

Hatchett guessed that there was more to that statement than just an opinion. He decided not to delve into it at that point.

She continued. I want you to look into his case. My attorney, Jack McMakin, concurs.

Jack McMakin would of course be available to handle any civil litigation that would arise out of the circumstances, Hatchett thought. Then he said:

"What do you think happened to your son, ma’am?"

She paused and looked him in the eye. I think he was attacked in the jail, and it resulted in his … his death.

Hatchett nodded. Ms Lancaster, do you know why he was at the hospital?

My attorney told me he was being treated for a cut to his forehead. She stopped. But that could have happened anywhere, any time; on his job, or even an accident at home.

Where does, or did he live?

She supplied an address outside the city limits, northwest of the town. Hatchett knew it. It wasn’t the best part of the county.

Did he live alone? he said.

I don’t know.

What kind of work did he do?

He’s employed at the Precision Bumper Company, in Urbandale.

But what did he do there?

I, I don’t know. He hadn’t been there very long, I don’t think.

Hatchett nodded again. His guess was that Helen Lancaster knew what her son did, but she was just too embarrassed to say. If he wasn’t in management or ownership, why would a guy who came from money be working at a blue collar job at a factory that made automobile bumpers? And why had he not been there for ‘very long’?

Hatchett took a deep breath and exhaled. This had the potential to be a very lucrative case. He wanted it, but he didn’t want to pick a fight with the Sheriff’s Office over it. Something told him that anything less than an indictment of the jail, its employees, and the sheriff would be a disappointment to Helen Lancaster.

What if your son wasn’t killed in jail?

What?

What if he was assaulted somewhere else and died later?

Well, well, how could that be?

I don’t know, but it’s possible. Oftentimes, if one receives a blow to the head it may be a day or even two, or three before they, uh, they expire.

She paused. I want to know it, whatever happened to my son. That’s all that matters.

If that’s true, I think I can help you. But, if I take this case, I’m going wherever it leads – not just the jail. He paused. And, one more thing.

What’s that?

I’m going to ask you for complete candor. It doesn’t help our cause if you withhold information from me. It’ll just take longer, cost you more money, and both of us will be more frustrated. He paused and looked her in the eye. Do I have your word on that?

She tilted her head back, and Hatchett could see the insides of her nostrils. With that look of defiance, he could tell that what he had said to her had gone in one of her wealthy, ring-adorned ears and out of the other.

Naturally, she said.

Hatchett reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a notebook and a pen. He looked up at Helen Lancaster.

I need a little information to get me started.

Will it take long? I’ve errands to run.

I’ll try not to hinder you. His tone did not betray the sarcasm in his attitude. You mentioned that your son was divorced. How can I locate his ex-wife?

She snorted. I certainly don’t know what good that would do.

Indulge me.

Her name is Anita, Anita Harrelson Lancaster. She lives in Urbandale, not far from the factory where Anthony works, ah, worked.

Did he have any children?

Yes, a son. His mother won’t let me have any contact with him. I’ve told her that I could give him advantages, but she’s adamant.

It was a less than amicable separation, I take it.

Very acrimonious. Adultery was a large part of the grounds.

Hatchett didn’t ask whether it was on his part or hers. You said that your son’s father is deceased. Did they get along?

"Now, I certainly don’t see where that has any bearing on