In One Ear

By Russell Kortright

A GRIPPING VIGILANTE MURDER MYSTERY

That summer, a monster appeared in a small town in rural Tennessee. Within two months the tall, powerfully built MS-13 gangbanger called Chupa had set up a lucrative illegal drug business, killed a local teenage boy, and kidnapped two young girls from the area to sell to human traffickers. And now Chupa had become fixated on his next target—high school student Anna Mosley.

When Bert Raso, one of Anna's teachers, fully realizes the danger posed by this malevolent brute, he and a friend form a plan to eliminate the threat to their town. But these two men are not the only would-be vigilantes. Bullets begin to fly; but with multiple victims and multiple suspects—and no evidence tying anyone to the murders—veteran detective Will Markus will be hard-pressed to make sense of the chaos.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667894492

Book preview

— 1 —

A revolver was pointed at the back of Howie’s head. He stood facing the open trunk of his Honda Civic, sobbing. The air inside the old barn was stifling—heavy with the stench of rotting hay. Sunlight leaking through cracks in the roof sent brilliant shafts of floating dust streaming to the floor. Outside, the midday sun blazed in a hazy sky—the only sound a distant crow, and the relentless drone of insects in the summer fields. Inside the barn Howie begged for his life; he would never-ever do it again. Chupa knew that to be true; he pulled the trigger. As Howie fell, Chupa pushed him into the trunk, stuffed his legs in and slammed the lid.

No one had worked this farm for many years. A young man named Michael Chavez had recently inherited the place, but he would not be working the soil or raising livestock. Using the street-name, Chupa, he conducted a very different kind of business. At the end of July, Chavez moved to the farm, set up his operation and recruited two local boys to help him sell weed. Seventeen year old Howie Merritt was one of those boys. But within a month, Howie made a grave mistake. Given a deal to manage, he completed the transaction but skimmed some money. Chavez had discovered Howie’s deception—hence the retribution.

This was rural Tennessee, some sixty miles from Nashville. The old farm was tucked back in the low hills a couple of miles north of a small town called Woodburn. Along with the original farmhouse there were two barns, a crumbling chicken coop and several acres that once yielded hay but were now overgrown brush lots. At the far end of the largest of these fields stood a wooded area, mostly old hickory and hackberry trees. Howie and his Honda were headed to these woods. Following the old tractor road, Chavez drove the half-mile to the trees. He steered the Honda into dense scrub beneath a massive oak and walked back to the barn, feeling confident the car would never be found.

The disappearance of Howie Merritt went largely ignored by the town of Woodburn. When Howie bought the used Honda Civic earlier that summer he vowed to forget about school and leave for Los Angeles as soon as had enough money. Everyone assumed he was on the road headed west. No one filed a missing-persons report, and apart from Riley Merritt, Howie’s older brother, no one even seemed concerned. Summer turned to fall with no word from Howie, and Riley was truly worried. Why hadn’t he been in touch—why didn’t he answer his goddam phone? He kept Howie’s phone bill paid, but any attempt to call went straight to voicemail.

After the death of their father when Howie was quite young, Riley had pretty much raised his little brother. Their mother became virtually useless and was now in prison for assaulting a police officer with her car. Howie often asked Riley for money, but the last time they spoke he had mentioned working for some drug-dealer named Chupa. Maybe he’s on a dope run for that dude—but even if he went to California he woulda called me by now. Riley did not believe his brother was on a road trip, or on a drug run for Chupa. He decided to confront this dealer. Each morning on his way to work he drove his old, beat-up Volkswagen Rabbit past the high school. Finally spotting some boys Howie’s age hanging out in the parking lot, he turned in and rolled up near the group. He easily recognized Chupa from the description given him by Howie. The drug dealer was much taller than any of the other boys, and even more powerfully built than Howie had described. Riley came to a stop but didn’t get out—he rolled down the window.

Hey Chupa, Riley called out. Com’ere a sec.

Chavez turned, glared and then slowly approached. What the fuck ya want?

I’m Howie Merritt’s brother—I wanna know where he is.

Chavez shrugged his muscular shoulders. I ain’t no fuckin’ babysitter, cabron.

Yeah, but I need to know where he’s at.

Chavez stepped closer, put both hands on the car roof above the window, leaned forward and brought his face down close to Riley’s. Speaking quietly, he said, Are you deaf, bitch? I jus’ fuckin’ told ya … ain’t seen him; don’t know where he is; don’t give a shit. Chavez straightened up and took one step back. Now fuck off, puta.

Riley’s level of concern for Howie now doubled. What’s more, he suddenly pictured himself being yanked through the open car window and beaten to death right there in the school parking lot. The smart move was to leave. As he swung his car around, Riley glanced at the other teens and recognized Albie Crowell, a boy he knew to be one of Howie’s friends. He would have to catch up with him when Chupa wasn’t around.

Feeling shaken, Riley pulled out and headed to his job at Jiffy Lube, where he would struggle to perform express oil changes for the rest of the day. Later that week, Riley spoke to Albie Crowell, but learned nothing. Clearly, Albie was afraid to say anything negative about Chupa. Riley understood.

Will Markus, a forty-nine year old Tennessee native, had been a police officer his entire adult life. After spending twenty years with the Atlanta PD, Markus had returned home to middle Tennessee. In Georgia, he made detective after only four years on the force and worked the next sixteen in homicide. When a senior position opened up at a County Sheriff’s Office in Tennessee, Markus went for it. He was now in his ninth year as Lieutenant Detective in the rural county where he was raised.

Slightly over six feet tall and slender of build, Markus kept himself in good physical shape, shaved his head regularly and wore a tidy salt-and-pepper beard. He attributed his swarthy complexion to a Persian ancestor, but would give no details. Always calm and self-assured, Markus was well-liked by colleagues for his intelligence, insight and dry sense of humor. He lived with his wife, Sophie, in a ranch-style home on the edge of town. Their only child, a daughter named Ava, worked in the music business and lived in Nashville.

Early on a Tuesday morning in late September, Detective Markus received a call. A body had been found in a vacant mobile home in the northernmost part of the county. The small, battered house-trailer sat on a brush lot at the top of a ridge in a very rural area. It had been hauled up there at least four decades ago to serve as someone’s hunting camp. The nearest occupied dwelling was over three miles away.

With no viable address for GPS, Markus had to go old-school, using a map to find the place. He eventually located the gravel lane leading to the isolated ridgetop and the trailer. When Markus pulled up, Detective Tony Rubio stood at the side of the dirt road waiting for him. Rubio was his partner, and had been for over three years. Markus parked his unmarked Ford Explorer behind Rubio’s unmarked Ford Taurus and got out. In the crisp autumn morning under a flawless sky, Markus took a moment for the remarkable view. From this spot, he could see across the countryside for at least seventy miles. Leaves had started to change color in the nearby hills, and early morning fog still filled the hollows below, making the ridgetops in the blue distance seem to float on a sea of mist.

Hey, Boss, Rubio said. Nice day, huh?

Yeah … except for the dead body. So what’s the scoop?

Well, no one has been inside since the deputy checked it out first thing this morning. Rubio consulted his notepad. "Okay; the deceased is a Pete Tilly, white male, twenty-nine years old. His body was discovered by younger brother, Roland Tilly. I talked to him on the phone. He says Pete was missing for two days, and he came up here to check the abandoned trailer because, and I quote, he already checked everywheres and didn’t have anywheres else to check."

So this Roland Tilly isn’t here?

"Nope; I told him to be at our office by one o’clock this afternoon for an interview; he said he would. But check this out; he apparently discovered the body and then went home before calling anybody."

At that, Markus raised his eyebrows. He pulled his cellphone from the inner pocket of his sport coat and looked at the screen. I have signal here.

Yeah, me too, Tony said. I thought it was weird he didn’t call 911 right when he found his dead brother. Speaking of weird, the Medical Examiner should be here pretty soon.

Markus laughed. Come on now, Tony; I like old Steve. But yeah, let’s get a look in there before anyone else goes in.

You bet; we can do it right now.

Rubio handed Markus a set of the personal protection gear they wore to minimize contaminating the crime scene, and they both suited up. Approaching the trailer, Markus detected a distinctive odor, even with a mask on.

You smell that smell, Tony?

Can’t ignore it. It’ll be worse inside.

When they entered the mobile home, their suspicions were confirmed. It was a hillbilly meth-lab. The chemical stench overpowered even the decomposing corpse on the floor. Pieces of aluminum foil, cheesecloth, rubber hose, and plastic jugs were scattered among the empty beer cans and liquor bottles. This would look like trash to most people, but to the detectives it was a clear indication that methamphetamine had been cooked in this trailer recently—and probably on a regular basis.

Rubio had been partnered with Markus long enough to be familiar with his method. They stood near the door discussing what they could see. Rubio took notes.

I love what they’ve done with the place, Markus said.

Rubio laughed. Looks like a real going concern.

Markus said, There’s our victim; tell me what else you see.

"Okay; I see a shit-hole of a mobile home. In fact, I can see through it in places. It’s obviously a makeshift meth-lab. I see blood, of course. Oh, and puke—lots of puke."

Puke—okay, what else?

Well, there’s a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort sitting on the coffee table. That might explain the puke.

It might, Markus said. But what explains the puke on the walls behind the couch. And there’s some on the lampshade too; it looks like projectile vomiting.

In New Jersey we call that a power boot.

How interesting, Tony. You’re a fountain of useful knowledge.

Tony laughed. Happy to help, Boss.

The detectives then turned their attention to the body, on the floor in front of the couch, facing away from them. Rubio said, Looks like a shotgun blast to the back from close range.

Okay, keep going.

Well, I’d say the shooter was standing about where we are now. The body is on the floor; that’s not surprising, but the fetal position seems odd for a shotgun victim, I think.

Very good, bud; you’ll make a fine detective yet.

Ya think?

I don’t see any spent shotgun shells anywhere, Markus said. Let’s sneak down that hallway and make sure our friend here is the only stiff.

Markus and Rubio gave the old trailer a once-over and bagged a couple items, including the bottle of Southern Comfort. There was no murder weapon to be found.

Come on, Tony, Markus said. Let’s get the hell out of here; I need fresh air.

Right behind ya, Boss.

The two detectives hurried outside. As they peeled off their masks, a Sheriff’s van pulled up out front. Steve Curry, the County Medical Examiner, got out. Curry approached, singing loudly while air-guitaring the song blasting from his earbuds. Rubio looked on, stunned.

Markus seized Rubio’s shoulder to get his attention, gave him a stern look and said, Doobie Brothers—China Grove.

What?

"Great for air-guitar," Markus said. Rubio shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Curry reached the detectives as the song ended. He mimicked the last guitar lick with a flourish, grinned and yanked the earbuds out with one hand. He let the bag on his shoulder slide to the ground, and then pulled his unkempt gray hair back into a ponytail.

Hey Doc, Markus said. Long time, no see. Markus and Curry hadn’t worked a homicide together in over eight months.

Yeah, it’s been nice. Curry laughed. Anyway—this one sounds like a real mess.

It’ll do ‘til the real mess shows up, Markus said. Listen, Steve, I’m going back to the office now to start the paperwork and interview the guy that found the body. I’ll leave Tony here to give you a hand. Holler at me when you know something.

You betcha, Curry said. Good to see ya, Will.

You too, bud.

The ME suited up and went inside the trailer. The detectives walked to the Explorer where Markus removed his gloves, booties and protective coverall suit. He dropped everything in a trash bag that Rubio held open for him.

That guy sure is an old hippie, Rubio said.

He is, Markus said. But don’t let that fool you; he’s as sharp as they come. And he’s been doing this a long time; he really knows his shit.

Yeah, I know, Boss. Anyway, before you go, let me ask you about one more thing.

Shoot.

I was wondering how our victim got here. You know, like, where’s his car? Someone has been parking around back, but there were no vehicles here.

I wondered if you’d mention that. I’d say either his killer drove him up here, or there were two killers, and one of them took his car—and any drugs or money. Make sure the crime scene guys get beaucoup fingerprints and tire impressions. You know the drill. When you get back to the office, see if you can find out who owns this place, and if Tilly had a car. And start putting together a list of names and phone numbers: friends, family, wives, ex-wives and girlfriends. Markus made air quotes. "And business partners."

Copy that, Boss. I’ll see ya back at the office.

Good deal, Tony. Now, wish me luck finding my way outta here.

— 2 —

A coyote stepped from beneath a thicket of cedar trees, raised his head and sniffed the air. Slipping under the bottom strand of barbed wire, the old hunter crept into the pasture lot. A mist lay on the meadow as the sun began to rise—a typical autumn morning this close to the river. He now stood in a field where four goats pastured. After scanning the field and listening intently for nearly half a minute, he limped to his kill from the previous evening—one of those four resident goats. Coyotes are naturally cautious, but this was more than that. These goats had protection. He was in pain now because he hadn’t moved fast enough three hours earlier. The goats’ defender had been too late coming to the rescue, but still managed to deliver a blow that sent the starving coyote scurrying back into the cedar-woods with a fractured leg. The guardian of these goats was a diminutive but tough donkey named Buster, now locked in a small barn near the farmhouse. An ambush had been