Dead Man's Reach: An Acey Tapp Mystery

By S. E. Schenkel

A man travels from Texas to Michigan to destroy the files of the investigative agency of McMunn and Son. He fails and is murdered. Desperate for answers, Acey Tapp and team travel to the Gulf Coast to question the man's widow. Shortly afterwards, she disappears, along with the two senior investigators. What follows brings the death toll to four and a cold case to its conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597050159

Book preview

Dedication

Rapley, Mary, Margaret,

John, Bill and

Mom and Dad—my first family.

One

Barrier tape threaded the tall dry grass like a yellow snake. Old grave and possibly an old murder—not that a hog-tied skeleton left any doubt about foul play. Three days since the gruesome discovery and it was still getting air time. But then mystery always did play well on the evening news.

The phone rang as the reporter identified the remains as those of a prepubescent male. I turned off the TV and grabbed the receiver.

Tapp here.

Acey, it’s me.

Where the heck are you, Webb? I thought we were supposed to have a meeting.

I need you to do something.

I got off the sofa. All right.

Megan stepped into the room and paused in a stream of sunlight that accented the gray in her dark hair. Is that Webb? she mouthed.

I nodded and turned my attention back to Webb’s strange request.

Can you tell me why? I asked, aware of a din of voices coming over the receiver. Someone shouted Webb’s name and the phone went dead.

Is Webb okay? Megan asked.

I guess.

What do you mean, you guess?

Well for starters, he hung up on me.

Not Webb.

I’m telling you that’s what just happened.

Did he say anything about our meeting? Megan asked.

No, but he ordered me out on a surveillance job.

Ordered you?

Like I said, he wasn’t himself. Sounded really upset. Bossy and upset.

What’s the surveillance job? asked Megan.

I’ll tell you on the way. It might already be too late.

I went into the kitchen, grabbed the keys for the van and handed them to Megan. You drive. I’ll get the cameras ready.

Drive where?

Fourth and Main. And we need to get there as fast as you can.

We went out the side door and climbed into the large customized van that served as office and RV. Megan settled behind the wheel and I moved through the cab into the small galley. I retrieved the laptop from an overhead cupboard, set it on the table, powered it on and squeezed into the bench seat. I tapped several combinations of keys and activated the cameras hidden under the van’s false roof. Using the touch pad, I guided the cameras along their tracks to the front of the van. Next, I divided the screen so both cameras could concurrently feed back their images. Finally, I switched on the two video recorders connected to the cameras.

The screen showed different halves of Oak Street speeding toward us. I opened the overhead cabinet. The recording lights stared back like little red eyes.

How far away are we? I asked, dropping into the passenger’s seat.

A couple of minutes, if we can get there.

Ahead, at Fourth and Washington, two policemen were directing traffic onto side streets. Beyond them were several squad cars, a fire truck and an EMS vehicle.

Turn left here, I said.

I presume we’re supposed to film whatever’s going on at Fourth and Main, Megan said, making the turn.

That’s what Webb wants. I pointed ahead. Make the next right and the next right after that.

They won’t let us through, said Megan.

Pull into the strip mall on the corner. We should be able to get some good viewing from its parking lot.

It looks like someone’s been in an accident, said Megan.

I pointed to a double slot up ahead. She pulled in and turned off the engine.

Why are we filming this? she asked, following me back to the booth.

I have no idea.

You don’t think Webb was involved in the accident, do you?

As upset as he was, it’s a possibility. Using the zoom on camera one, I moved in on the object of everyone’s attention—a white, mid-nineties Chevy pickup with its hood wrapped around a lamppost.

Leaving camera one on the pickup, I used the controls of the second camera to move around. Tapp, the invisible gawker. EMS started to pull away, its lights flashing and sirens on.

Looks like they got someone out alive, I said. Either that, or they’re in a hurry to get coffee. Dead men don’t need the bells and whistles.

Camera Two picked up a number of people previously hidden by the emergency vehicle. I zoomed in on their faces, and then roamed the street, video taping as many people and license plates as I could.

I don’t see Webb’s Escort or any other vehicle, said Megan.

Me neither.

Was Webb calling from the office?

I shook my head. Too much background noise for that. Sounded more like a restaurant or maybe a police station.

Megan crossed the aisle to the small galley. Acey, do you want some coffee?

Wouldn’t mind. Don’t know how long we’re going to be here. Webb said to keep the cameras rolling as long as there was anyone around. I glanced up at the top of the screen. Camera one was still on the pickup.

I continued to roam around with camera two, caught a cop yawning. The man’s teeth looked like they belonged in the mouth of a canine.

A tow truck arrived. The driver got out, examined the front of the damaged vehicle and scratched his head. Who wouldn’t? The dent in the hood was like a deep trough, and then there was the lamppost sticking out of the center like a leaning electrical tower.

I went back to filming the crowd. The next time I glanced up at the top of the screen, the lamppost lay on the ground and the tow truck was heading away with its load. I quickly adjusted the camera to get a good picture of the rear of the Chevy pickup and its Arizona license plate.

BACK HOME ON THE PORCH swing, Megan and I watched Webb pull up the drive in his little white Escort. He parked behind the van and headed toward us, moving in the distracted laborious way of someone with too many years and too much on his mind.

Did you get there in time? he asked, taking a seat on the chair facing us. He leaned forward, and in the ruddy light of sunset, his gray hair was like a thin veil against his encroaching baldness.

In time to record two video tapes, I said. Which you’ll see after we get some sort of explanation.

Megan pinched me. Do you want something to drink, Webb? she asked.

Some water, if you don’t mind.

She gave him a hug and went into the house.

I’m going to hold off on my hug, I said.

Webb smiled and for a few seconds his face lost a little of its gloom.

Do you know the driver of that pickup? I asked.

No.

He’s from out of state.

How do you know that? asked Webb.

’Cause he didn’t have Michigan plates on his vehicle.

Webb sighed and he shook his head.

Why the rush job on catching the accident scene on tape? I asked.

I’ll tell you when Megan gets back, he answered.

Suit yourself. We were silent for a long moment. I said, Annie called.

Oh, yeah? Did she decide?

Yep. I stared at Webb, eyes wide, smile big.

Webb opened his hands, palms up. And... Is she coming or not?

I did a lip-lock-key-toss.

She is. I can see it in your eyes, said Webb.

You know me too well. And yes, she’s coming.

Webb smiled and did a little dance with his head. The folks in Pennsylvania are going to miss her. She was probably the best sheriff they ever had. Oh well, their loss is our gain and we can sure use her help with this new case.

You’ve decided which case we’re going to take? I thought that was the purpose of the meeting we never had.

I’ll explain when Megan gets back.

You feeling okay? You look kind of... I was searching for a word that wouldn’t sting when Megan stepped out and handed Webb a glass of water.

Fresh from the well, I said, judging from the time it took to fetch.

Fetch? I’ll give you fetch. Megan snatched the pen from my shirt pocket and tossed it over the side of the porch.

I turned to see it land in the arms of the yew we’d planted last summer.

Someone broke into the office, said Webb.

Again? I leaned over the rail and retrieved my pen. Maybe we ought to close that place and work out of the house—since we do anyway. He ignored my suggestion, as I knew he would. The office was the only home Webb had known for most of his life. It’s where he roamed with his memories. Where he went when he wanted to commune with the best of his past, and pace away the worst.

What did they take? I asked, unable to imagine what anyone would want from furnishings that predated Eisenhower.

Nothing. It’s what was left that has me worried.

Like what?

A gallon of gas, said Webb.

Gas? You saying he wanted to burn us out?

Were you there? Megan asked, overriding my question with one of concern.

No, I wasn’t there. But one of the other tenants saw him near our office, got suspicious and alerted security. The guard got there as he was uncapping the gas can. He chased him out of the building, and called the police with a description of his vehicle and the direction he was headed.

Hence the police chase and the lamppost making the acquaintance of the pickup, I added.

Webb nodded.

How’d he get a gas can past security? I asked.

He had it in one of those large satchels.

Do you know who he is? asked Megan.

No. He’s in surgery and he wasn’t carrying a wallet, or anything with a name on it.

What about running the pickup’s license plate number for a name? I asked. And by the way, the plate’s from Arizona.

The pickup was stolen, so that’s not going to give us the name of the arsonist.

What about his fingerprints, did the police run them?

They didn’t think of it until he was in surgery.

There wasn’t anything with his prints on it in the pickup?

That’s what I was told.

He handled the steering wheel and gas can, didn’t he?

With gloves.

That’s interesting, I said, setting the porch swing in motion.

What do you mean? Megan drew her feet in close and settled against the swing’s chain.

Perp’s concerned enough to wear gloves and yet pulls a job in broad daylight. Doesn’t make sense.

Plus he steals a vehicle in Arizona and drives here, said Megan.

If that’s where he got it. It could have been stolen from someone visiting relatives here in Willow Falls, I said.

I stopped the swing and turned to Webb. Do we know anything at all about the owner of the pickup?

Webb shook his head. Not yet.

How’d you find out about the break-in? I asked.

I was across the street getting a haircut. I saw the pickup squeal out of the parking lot and the security guard giving chase.

I studied his wispy strands and wondered what they charged to trim what amounted to almost nothing. Did you see the driver’s face?

No. He was going too fast and I was actually dozing.

So it’s possible you know the man who tried to burn us out, I said.

The police gave me his description, but no one came to mind.

At least he won’t be back to try again, I said.

Or there were more than one, and someone else is going to try and finish the job.

That sounds pretty paranoid, Webb.

Is that why you had us film the accident scene? Megan asked. You think he had an accomplice?

I think we don’t know, so we cover all the bases. Webb leaned back. This time, the setting sun gave him a flushed, inebriated look. An old man relaxing after a few too many.

Is this the new case you’re talking about? I asked.

He nodded.

We’re going to investigate a case of attempted arson? Isn’t that against company policy?

It’s not just arson. There has to be a connection between the work we do and the attempt to burn us out. And we’re not going to take on another case until I find out why we were targeted.

I was quiet for a long moment, mostly to let Webb cool down. Didn’t want him having another heart attack. He took a sip of water and stared into the glass, holding on to it with both hands and lost in its watery depths.

What do the police think? I asked in a deliberately unchallenging voice.

That there was a crime. They now have the criminal. End of story.

But not for you...

That man came for the files. He took the time to spread out the file boxes and remove their lids. There’s no doubt he planned to douse the contents of each box to make sure everything was destroyed. If the security guard hadn’t come when he did, we would have lost all the files and probably everything in the office.

Webb went silent and looked away. Probably not willing to say what he was really thinking. That he’d almost lost the shrine to Charlie McMunn, his hero, and the man who had rescued and later adopted him. Almost lost the desk Charlie had worked at all his life, chasing down lost kids, the bed Charlie had slept in, the kitchen where Charlie had rustled up meals for himself and his adopted, traumatized son. And as much as I might see all this as obsessive, in the eyes of the saved, you can’t go too far in revering the person who’d plucked you from hell.

Maybe I should sleep there tonight, I said.

I’ll do it, said Webb.

Not wanting to shove his age and frailty in his face, I looked at Megan.

She said, Let Acey do it, Webb. You and I are better employed at brainstorming. We can watch the videos of the accident on the large screen TV; see if anything comes to mind, or if any face rings a bell.

I think I was just insulted, I said.

If you’re not sure, it only proves my point, said Megan.

Strange that he attempted to do the dirty deed in the middle of the day instead of at night, said Webb, handing me the keys to the Escort.

Could mean he was in a hurry to get it done, said Megan.

But why? I asked.

That’s what we’re going to find out, said Webb.

Two

The Tally Building stood at the corner of Ninth and Lincoln, its grimy walls and peeling paint—a relic of the early nineteen hundreds. I parked at the back, got out and turned my attention from the night sky to our office on the third floor. I imagined Webb as a boy standing there, looking out and making a wish on a shooting star.

I had a wish myself—that I was presently elsewhere. Knowing of the ghosts that lingered up there in those two dingy cramped rooms, it wasn’t exactly my idea of a relaxing place to spend the night. Too much like camping in a graveyard. Sleeping among the hundreds of former grief-ridden clients who’d sat in the same chair and poured out their stories of loved ones gone missing.

I headed around to the front of the building, thinking about Charlie McMunn, the founder of our little investigative family. Dead now a few decades, he still called the shots through the rules he’d laid down over the years. Rules Webb followed like a monk obeying his revered abbot’s every whim.

Why Charlie had obsessed over missing people when he could have worked the more lucrative fields of spouse spying or insurance fraud was a puzzle. And I wasn’t even sure if Webb knew the answer.

What Webb didn’t conceal, even slightly, was that he carried the same single-minded commitment to searching for people gone missing. In Webb’s case, I was pretty sure I knew the motive behind this obsession. Working with him for the past few years, watching him eat and sleep in the company of whatever case we were on, and chasing down clues like a cat after a mouse, I had the impression Webb saw himself in every missing person he searched for, and every rescue was a repeat of his own.

I reached the front of the office building. Traffic was light, which wasn’t surprising, as there was nothing open for blocks. The security guard, Ken Nash, was sitting at his desk in the lobby. I rapped on the glass.

He hurried over, mouth full and jaw working like a piston. He held the door open and I slipped through with my bag of groceries.

Forget something, Mr. Tapp? he asked after a big swallow.

The boss is antsy about another assault on the office, so I’m here for the night. I set the bag on the security desk, a moon-shaped thing with a single monitor and control panel sharing space with the remains of a sandwich and a take-out coffee. There was also a bottle of aspirin. I wondered which middle-age demons demanded its presence.

I hear you’re the hero, I said, glancing at the monitor. It showed one of the upper-floor halls. You didn’t happen to get this arsonist on video, did you?

Nope. I was monitoring the second floor at the time. Ken settled in his chair. Probably could have if I’d had my thinking cap on, only it takes me so doggone long to punch in the right keys in the right order. Decided instead to get my butt up there and have a look.

You made the right decision, I said. Another minute and there would have been a major fire to deal with.

That’s what I keep telling myself. He settled on his chair and played with his watch. Probably wishing he were home dozing on the sofa, and would have been, too, if it hadn’t been for the irresponsible greed of those managing his pension.

See anyone come in carrying a large satchel? I asked.

Nope, and I watch for that. Especially now. Besides, Saturdays don’t bring in a lot of folks, so I’d have certainly noticed a stranger with a satchel.

Wonder how he got in, I mused out loud.

There’s the rear door, offered Nash.

Yeah, but that’s kept locked, isn’t it?

People still use it to exit. They just can’t come in that way. At least they’re not supposed to.

So you don’t get a lot of comings and goings on Saturdays?

No, not a lot. Mostly people who want to catch up on paper work. Plus there’s the occasional move-in or move-out.

Who gave you the heads-up about this guy? I asked.

Mr. Reed.

Silas? I said, referring to the bearded attorney in 337. Not that I was surprised. Retired, the man was this building’s equivalent of a granny at the window. Which I shouldn’t badmouth, since it was that particular trait that put the cuffs on the arsonist.

Well, you have a good evening, Ken.

You too, Mr. Tapp.

I cut through the lobby and around to the back exit. It was a single door with a wide panic bar. I set my groceries down, pushed the door open, stepped out and, keeping a hand on the door, glanced around. There were no bushes for anyone to hide near, ready to rush in when someone came out. I stepped back in and let the door close. Six seconds and it was shut tight. Enough time for someone fast on their feet to slip in. From there, it was just a matter of following the arrow on the overhead sign pointing to the stairs. And then, too, Webb may be right about there being an accomplice. Someone who entered all innocent-like at the front and proceeded to the rear to open the door for the man with the satchel.

I walked back to the elevator and rode it up to the third floor. Heading down the hall, I was surprised to see no crime scene tape across the office entrance. But then the police had their man, their witness, their end to the story.

I entered and set the groceries on the old cherrywood desk that Webb polished weekly. There were still a few stains near the front edge—little ghost-like marks—remnants, maybe, of clients’ tears.

I went back to the door and examined the lock. Looked intact. So either our firebug had a key or he knew how to pick locks without leaving a visible mark. I smiled at the words painted on the door’s glass insert: McMunn and Son Investigations. Originally referring to Charlie and Webb, it now had come to mean to the uninformed, Webb and myself.

I walked through the office and into the back room. After opening the windows, I unpacked, putting the ice cream in the freezer and setting the cheese and crackers out on the table.

Recently hung photos on the far wall caught my attention. The largest was of Webb’s birth parents, Carrie and Peter Picard. Both deceased. The two others were of his deceased sister and his only living sibling, a younger brother by the name of Bill Picard. The family he learned about only last year, thanks to the super sleuthing on the part of Megan and myself. And, of course, Annie—none of it would have happened without her. I felt like puffing out my chest and grabbing both sides of my shirt like make-believe suspenders. It felt good to have given Webb that gift. The only downside was that Webb had to make the acquaintance of his ma and pa at their graveside.

I wondered what Charlie’s thoughts were on these new developments in his adopted son’s life. Having searched for years for Webb’s folks, and been forced to leave this world under the weight of failure, it probably thrilled him as much as the thrill he got entering heaven after his stint on earth.

Stacked in the far corner were the boxes containing all the old files, some going as far back as the late twenties. If the arsonist had spread them out and taken off the lids, then I guess Webb had come by and restacked them.

I picked up the phone and called down to the security desk. Ken answered. Me again, I said.

You got a problem? asked Ken.

No, just wondering if there were any deliveries made around the same time as the arsonist appeared.

Don’t remember any. Besides, I thought they caught this guy, said Ken.

They did.

So why all the questions?

"Oh, you know us PI types,