Finding Elmer Lee: The Lanny Boone Series, #1

By Ben Douglas

The tranquility of a small southern town is shattered when one of its citizens is reported missing and a battered body is found in a wrecked car. Hasty investigations and judgment errors result in both cases being prematurely closed. Detective Lieutenant Lanny Boone is faced with the dilemma of following orders from his superiors and letting things lie, or of following his intuition and taking on the Dixie Mafia to find the killers. The only thing he has to lose by following his intuition is his job...or maybe his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781590884850

Book preview

One

A re you Detective Lieutenant Lanny Boone?

Yes, ma’am, I am. What can I do for you?

I want you to find my husband and shoot him.

She stood an even six feet, I’d guess, and with her three-inch heels she had an inch on me. She had broad shoulders and muscular arms and calves, would weigh in at about one ninety. I had her by about twenty pounds. Mine’s all muscle, too, or at least that’s what I tell my girlfriend. Still, I’d hesitate to climb into the ring with her and I’d fought some pretty good light heavyweights during my days in the army and my Golden Gloves days.

Ma’am?

I said I want you to find my husband and shoot him.

She was an attractive woman, mid-forties, with curves in all the right places. Her short, straw-colored hair, carefully applied makeup and smooth, evenly tanned skin gave her a sex appeal that would cause a man to look twice.

Yes, ma’am, I heard what you said. I pointed toward one of the empty chairs in front of my desk and invited her to sit. She did. "But we don’t ordinarily shoot husbands on request. If we did we’d probably have to

increase the size of our police

force to accommodate all the requests."

That’s funny.

I thought so.

Captain said you’d help. She folded her arms across her ample bosoms.

He did? What exactly did the captain say?

He said you’re a pain in the butt but you get things done.

The captain is one of my biggest fans.

So are you going to help me?

If it’s truly a case of a missing person, we’ll do what we can to find the person that’s missing.

She looked at me as if she pitied me because I couldn’t understand her request. He’s gone, disappeared, vamoosed. What else can I say? I know he’s off somewhere doing God knows what, or else he’s turned up at the wrong place at the wrong time and gotten himself killed. I’m so mad at him right now that I could find him and shoot him myself but that would be illegal. You can legally shoot him.

Not without a reason.

You have plenty of reason. Says so in the Bible.

I believed she wanted her husband found but I really didn’t think she wanted me to shoot him, or did she? She certainly seemed angry enough to do him harm, but kill him? You never know. The Bible?

"Yes, the Bible. First Timothy, chapter five, verse eight says, ‘But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.’ Now, do you know anybody needs

shooting more than an infidel does?"

I decided not to answer her question directly. I’ll have to look that up in our policies and procedures manual... So he’s not providing for you?

That look again, like I just didn’t get it.

No, he’s not providing for me. How could he? He’s gone. Been gone two weeks. Didn’t leave me a dime. Hasn’t sent me a dime. Like I said, he’s off doing God knows what, else he’s gotten himself killed.

You suspect foul play then?

"Foul Play? You mean like being kidnapped, or robbed or something? Maybe. He took off on his own. He’s doing some foul things all right, may the Lord forgive him, but if he’s met with foul play, I haven’t heard about it. If he’s off spending our money, he’s going to meet with foul play when I get my hands on him."

Spending your money?

Is there an echo in here? Yes, spending our money. And he has plenty. Got hurt working on an offshore oil rig. That’s what he used to do. Got a big settlement for that. Got some timber money.

Timber money?

There’s that echo again. Yes, timber money. His parents worked all their lives to buy land. They raised pine trees. You have any idea how much money a thousand acres of pine will bring?

I decided not to repeat, A thousand acres? Instead, I shook my head.

"A lot, that’s how much and they split it two ways. Parents kept half, gave their darling only son half. Top of that, they recently leased the land to an oil company for

the drilling rights. Split that money, too."

Your husband is an only child?

Guess they decided one like him was enough. You going to help me find him?

I nodded. Mrs.—uh, I didn’t get your name.

Byrd. Bobbie Sue Byrd. My husband’s name is Elmer Lee Byrd.

I nodded again and moved a note pad around in front of me. Can you tell me what Mr. Byrd looks like?

See him, you’d think he’s just dying to get into some kind of mischief. Just seeking it out. You know, like a mischievous little boy. His mama said he was always like that.

Mrs. Byrd—

You can call me Bobbie Sue. She gave me a sexy smile. At least, I think she meant for it to be sexy.

Bobbie Sue, can you give me a physical description of your husband? Height, weight, hair color?

Oh, I see. Well, he’s five foot seven and weighs a hundred and forty pounds.

I looked up from my note pad, straight-faced, I thought. We detectives try to never show surprise.

She must have read something in my expression. Lieutenant Boone, he’s a man, if you know what I mean. A hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. And as randy as a rabbit. She held her fingers to her mouth and blushed like a schoolgirl.

Yes, ma’am, I said. But please call me Lanny. What else?

"He has dark curly hair, heavy black eyebrows and

eyes so brown they look kind of crossed sometimes. He has a dark complexion and a smile that will just make a woman want to jump in his lap." She put her fingers to her mouth again.

Any scars, tattoos, birthmarks?

No tattoos. He has a birthmark, like a little brown leaf about the size of your thumbnail on his— She leaned to the right and patted her left rear. On his left cheek.

I scribbled brown leaf on my notepad. Scars?

He has a long white scar all the way across the back of his left hand. Got it accidentally. I was in the kitchen doing something, cutting up a chicken, maybe, had a knife in my hand. He snuck up behind me and grabbed me—I told you how he was, amorous and all. Scared me. I grabbed at his hands, never thinking about the knife, and accidentally cut him.

Any other scars or marks?

Bobbie Sue looked at her hands. Kind a working man gets. Scrapes and busted knuckles from working on the oil rigs.

How long did he work on the oil rigs?

About twenty years, I reckon. Until he got hurt and came into some money.

Can you tell me something about his personality? I flipped to a new page in my notepad. Was he happy, depressed, what?

She shrugged. Never a care in the world. Always looking to have a good time, like a kid out of school. Never did grow up.

Did Mr. Byrd ever leave home before?

"Elmer Lee. You can call him Elmer Lee. Oh, he’d take

off with his buddies to deer camp or on a week-long fishing trip up in Arkansas or somewhere. Sometimes they’d get off having fun and forget about the time and he’d get home a day or two later than he was supposed to."

Did Elmer Lee ever leave without telling you?

She leaned forward as if sharing a secret. Sometimes. He’d do things on the spur of the moment. He’d leave a note telling me he was gone, though. He couldn’t understand why I’d be upset with him acting like that.

Did you worry about him on those occasions?

First time or two I did. Got used to it... Lanny, I’m worried now, or mad, I don’t know which. Both, I reckon. He’s never been gone this long before without letting me know his whereabouts.

Did he leave in his car?

She gave me a dismissive wave. Doesn’t have a car. Drives a truck. It’s still in the driveway.

I turned my palms out. And?

I found out he left with one of his friends, Buddy Williams. I don’t care for Buddy, myself. Anyway, Buddy gave him a ride to Jackson. Dropped him off somewhere on Lakeland Drive. After that? I don’t know. Could have walked, hitchhiked, caught a train, taxi or plane. How do I know? Lots of ways to travel from there.

When’s the last time you saw him?

Morning he left. Said he had some ‘fooling around to do.’ Usually meant he was going fishing, or to a honky tonk to drink beer with his buddies—something like that.

Did you check with his friends to see if he’d gone somewhere with them?

She stared at the name plate on my desk that said L.

Boone, nodded and said, "Uh-huh. Buddy Williams was

the last one to see him. Others don’t have a clue as to

where he might be."

Did he ever go fishing or hunting or other places alone?

No. Elmer Lee wasn’t the type that liked to be alone.

Anything else you can tell me?

She looked at the ceiling like she’d find the answer up there, or maybe she was waiting for the Lord to speak to her.

Nothing that I can think of. You going to find him and punish him?

We’ll do our best to find him. As for punishing him...

You find him, I’ll take care of the rest. Where you going to start?

I’d like to stop by your house and look around.

Elmer Lee ain’t there. Why do you want to look around?

See if anything gives me a clue. See what he took with him, what he left behind... Got to start somewhere.

Well, I’ve got to go to the beauty parlor, then to the grocery. Won’t be home ‘til around three.

I told her I’d come out after three. She said that was fine and if I found Elmer Lee in the meantime I didn’t have to shoot him. Said she was mad when she came in. Didn’t really mean it when she said it. I thanked her and she left. I felt better knowing she didn’t expect me to shoot Elmer Lee Byrd.

As Bobbie Sue stood to leave my office, Sergeant Kenneth Crawford’s large frame filled the doorway. He saw her intentions and moved aside to let her pass. She nodded to Crawford as she walked out.

Lieutenant? Got a minute?

Come in, Crawford. I motioned to an empty chair.

He sat, looked back toward the door. Lot of woman.

Uh-huh, and get this, she says her husband is five seven and a hundred and forty pounds.

Crawford raised his eyebrows.

But, she said he’s a man.

He looked toward the door again as if expecting to see her standing there. Has to be, he said.

Crawford was my age but, at six-four and two sixty, he had a couple of inches and about fifty pounds on me. He played college football and still looked as if he’d fit nicely in the New Orleans Saints lineup. He was the color of mahogany and was either bald or shaves his head. Guys at the precinct think he shined it, too, but none of them had the courage to ask. As large as he was, he seemed able to materialize out of thin air—he’s not there, then he’s there.

Me? I’m thirty-one years old, divorced, no children. My ex-wife said my job made her nervous. She traded me in for a richer model. Can’t say that I blamed her. She married a nice guy. I sometimes think I’d like being a family person but dinner at Crawford’s, with his three children—two girls and a boy, all under the age of ten—caused me to wonder if I’m man enough to handle it.

I have an older brother who’s a high school football coach, and two sisters, both of whom were in banking. We get along. I suppose that spoke well for our parents.

My mother said I got in with the wrong crowd and became a law enforcement officer but I think she’s happy that it pays me enough to live on. Dad had a country store here in Mason County. Mom was a schoolteacher, taught math. They’ve retired and live south of here, near Collins where Dad grew up. I visited them to talk fishing with Dad and to enjoy Mom’s cooking.

I pointed to the coffee pot on top of my filing cabinet. Coffee?

Crawford shook his head. What’s up, Lieutenant?

The woman that was just in here? She’s filing a missing person report. Said her husband’s been missing two weeks.

And she’s just now filing a report?

Yeah. Things don’t add up, do they? She’s angry that he’s gone, that he left suddenly and without notice. She can’t decide if she thinks something’s happened to him or if he’s off having fun.

But two weeks?

Yes. And right now she’s on the way to the beauty parlor and to the grocery.

Sounds like she’s real worried.

Yeah.

So, Lieutenant, how did you luck out and get this case?

Like I told her, the captain is one of my biggest fans... Oh, did you want to see me about something?

Yes, are you going to the firing range this afternoon?

Every Wednesday and every Friday, Crawford. Want to come along?

Sure.

Loser buys the beer?

Crawford raised his eyebrows again. Make it easy on yourself, Lieutenant.

I know, I said, but it makes me try harder.

Two

At four that afternoon I drove down Highway 51, turned onto Bobbie Sue Byrd’s street, found her house and pulled into the driveway. The house, set among large water-oak trees, was brick up to the windows and of siding from the windows to the roof. A thick carpet of manicured St. Augustine covered the front yard and what I could see of the back yard.

The Ford Ranger pickup sitting off to the side of the driveway under one of the trees likely belonged to Elmer Lee Byrd. I’d bet Bobbie Sue Byrd claimed the new Buick Le Sabre in the carport.

I glanced at the bed of the truck as I went by. It was full of clutter: old tools, scraps of lumber, buckets, a tattered tarpaulin covering God knows what else. I walked toward the door to ring the bell but it opened before I got there.

Saw you coming, Lieutenant. Bobbie Sue extended her hand. I shook it. She saw me look down at her hand. You’d have a strong grip, too, if you’d been raised on the farm.

Yes ma’am, I suspect I would.

Well, come in. Come in. I don’t know what you expect to find. Elmer Lee is not here, that’s for sure.

Got to start somewhere. I stepped into the living room.

The captain said you’d question Elmer Lee’s relatives and friends. Said you’d aggravate everybody and generally make a nuisance of yourself. Said he reckoned that’s what it took to get the job done.

Makes me feel good to know I was the first person the captain thought of for the job. The living room was spotless. The couch and chairs looked comfortable but not expensive—price on this six-piece set good during this weekend sale only.

The walls were decorated with framed department store prints. Inexpensive do-dads covered the coffee table and end tables, and an oval cord rug lay in the center of the room over the polished oak floors. A wood-burning fireplace took up most of the wall on one end of the room. Photos of children, grown-ups and pets covered the mantle above the fireplace. I picked up one of them.

Is this Elmer Lee? He looked just as she’d described him. He had dark, curly hair and his eyes were so dark they almost looked crossed. That was a mischievous smile, if I ever saw one. He held a pipe as if he was about to take a puff. He smoke a pipe?

Not anymore. Gave it up. Tried chewing tobacco for a while but gave that up, too. Got tired of spitting, I reckon.

I pointed to two other photos. Who are these guys?

Those are our boys. Taken couple years ago. They’re bigger now, big like me, look like Elmer Lee.

Mind if I look around?

No, I don’t mind. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?

From the living room I could see straight ahead into the dining room. The dining table and chairs had likely come from the same furniture warehouse as had the living room furniture. Beyond the dining room was the kitchen. It was as spotless as the rest of the house.

I knew from experience that a lot of work went into keeping a house this clean. Otis and I lived in a bungalow on St. Augustine Drive and it was a constant struggle to keep it clean. Otis was the gruff mutt I got from the Animal Rescue League.

I walked from the kitchen back through the dining room into the living room. The bedrooms?

She pointed to a door beside the fireplace. The master bedroom and a bath are in there, and, she pointed to a door at the other end of the room, there are two bedrooms and a bath in there.

I stepped into the master bedroom. A flowered spread covered the bed. Brushes, combs, bracelets, earrings and other jewelry were neatly arranged on the dresser. An afghan lay on the stuffed chair in the corner. Except for the picture on the mantle in the living room I could see no sign of Elmer Lee anywhere in the house.

I pointed to the closet that lay along the length of one wall. May I?

Bobbie Sue shrugged. Sure.

I opened the closet. On the shelf above the clothes lay two suitcases, a gym bag, and ladies’ purses. Dresses, skirts and jackets took up about two-thirds of the closet. Ladies’ shoes, size eleven or twelve, were neatly arranged on the floor under the dresses. Elmer Lee’s clothes, khaki pants, jeans, knit shirts, sport shirts and two white dress shirts with button-down collars, occupied the other third of the closet. A red necktie hung on one of the dress shirts. A pair of lace-up boots and two pairs of loafers, all about a size seven, were on the floor beneath Elmer Lee’s clothes.

Did Elmer Lee have any clothes besides these?

No. That’s them.

Are any of his clothes missing?

Not that I can tell. None, I reckon, except what he had on, his running shoes and maybe a pair of jeans.

Underwear?

She opened a dresser drawer and look through it. Nope, all here.

What about his razor, toothbrush, deodorant, that sort of thing?

Didn’t take ‘em, as far as I know. She went into the bathroom, fingered items on the counter top, and opened drawers. I can’t tell that he took a thing.

What’s in the other two bedrooms?

Beds, dressers, closet. Take a look if you want to. Don’t use them since the boys left. One has become sort of a junk room.

I opened the doors and peeped in. From the musty smell I’d guess the doors were rarely opened. Where are the boys now?

Lee, he’s the oldest, is down at the University of Southern Mississippi. Bobby is at Hinds Community College.

They come home often?

Some. Mostly for some home cooking and to get their clothes washed.

How are they taking this—their dad being missing, I mean.

Bobbie Sue shrugged. Hard to tell. Truth is, I think they think their dad is off somewhere having fun, doing what he ought not. Like I told you, he’s sometimes gone off with his buddies and come back later than he’d said he would.

She followed me to the front door. Do you know any more than you did?

Maybe.

I could have told you all of Elmer Lee’s stuff was here. Saved you a trip.

I thanked Bobbie Sue Byrd for letting me look through her house. I asked if I could check out Elmer Lee’s truck. She said I could and found a spare set of keys.

She followed me out, watched as I pulled back the tarpaulin in the bed of the truck revealing a tow chain, the rusted shell of a power saw, an empty gas can, tattered work gloves and oily rags. Inside the cab, two fishing rods hung on the gun rack. A yellow rain slicker, hatchet, pliers and wrenches were stuffed behind the seat. On the floor on the passenger side sat a fishing tackle box filled with lures, line and fishhooks. The glove compartment contained a scarred owner’s manual, receipts for oil changes and repair work, pencils, a flashlight and a pocketknife. It was the truck of a man who spent time outdoors. I put the key in the ignition and started the engine. It purred like an old kitty cat. Elmer Lee had not left his truck behind because it wouldn’t run.

I thanked Bobbie Sue again, got in my Jeep Grand

Cherokee and left. If Elmer Lee Byrd had a lot of money it didn’t show. The house and furnishings were comfortable enough, but not what you’d expect of someone who was sitting on a pile of cash that ran into seven figures.

I drove out to the firing range. Crawford was already there. The black silhouettes, shaped like humans, were in place, as were some round targets with bull’s eyes. Crawford picked up a pair of ear protectors and adjusted them to fit his shiny dome. Another pair, along with some ammunition, lay on a small platform near our shooting station.

The sun was low in the sky but there was still enough daylight for us to shoot. A breeze played about the firing range, carrying with it the smell of freshly cut hay from nearby fields. It was one