I thought I was really in the loop. I figured Pfitzner was working both sides of the street, but we stayed in our lanes, if you know what I mean. He ran his show, got his votes, I did the same. When Keith got his head blown off and your boy got convicted for it, well, I was satisfied. I wanted the death penalty. The whole town was relieved. Looking back, though…”
He sees the waiter, flags him over, drains the dregs from his glass, and orders another round. I have at least six inches of liquid left in mine. With plenty of time on the clock, this could spiral into one sloppy afternoon.
He catches his breath and continues. “Looking back, though, things don’t add up. I’m kin to half the county and represented the other half. Last time I ran for reelection I got eighty percent of the vote and I was pissed about the lost twenty. There’s an old deputy, won’t give you the name, but he used to run cases for me. I’d pay him in cash and give him a cut when we settled. Did the same for ambulance drivers and tow truck operators. Had ’em all on the payroll. Anyway, the deputy is still around, lives near the Gulf, and I’ve been talking to him. He retired years ago, health’s in the tank but hell he’s pushing eighty. He worked on Pfitzner’s staff and managed to stay on his good side. He did the light stuff—traffic, football games, school events. Wasn’t much of a cop but didn’t want to be. Just enjoyed the uniform and the paycheck. Says you’re right, says Pfitzner was on the take with the drug traffickers, says it was known throughout the force. Pfitzner had these two brothers—”
“Chip and Dip.”
He pauses and flashes a smile with his yellow teeth. “You’re pretty good, Post.”
“We are thorough.”
“Anyway, Chip and Dip ran things for Pfitzner and held everybody in line. The inner circle kept the money and thought they were keeping the secrets too, but, of course, it’s a small town.”
The waiter returns with two jugs of hooch and looks at my first, virtually untouched, as if to say, “Let’s go, pal, this is a real bar.” I give him a smirk and take a long pull on the straw. Glenn does the same, and after a noisy swallow says, “The deputy tells me Kenny Taft was not killed by some random gang of drug thugs, not at all. He says some of the deputies back then strongly suspected Pfitzner set up the ambush, says he needed to put the clamps on Taft, who knew something. He says it worked just swell but with one minor hitch. A man got shot. Evidently, either Kenny Taft or Brace Gilmer managed to get off a lucky round and one of the gun thugs went down. The story goes that he bled out on the way to the hospital and they dumped his body behind a queer joint in Tampa. Just another unsolved murder. Luckily for Pfitzner, the guy was not a deputy and not from Seabrook so no red flags were raised. Any of this sound familiar, Post?”
I shake my head no. I will not repeat anything Bruce Gilmer told me in Idaho.
Another long pull and he’s energized for more narrative. “So the obvious question is why did Pfitzner want to get rid of Kenny Taft.”
“That’s the puzzle,” I say helpfully.
“Well, the rumor is that Kenny Taft got wind of the plan to burn the shed where the cops stored crime scene stuff, and that Taft removed several boxes of evidence before the fire. No one knew this, of course, and once he had the goods he was afraid to do anything with them. He must’ve said too much and word filtered back to Pfitzner, who set up the ambush.”
“Several boxes?” I ask as my mouth immediately goes dry and my heart starts pounding. I drink sangria to calm myself.
“That’s the rumor, Post. Don’t know what was destroyed in the fire and don’t know what was removed by Kenny Taft. Just rumors. There was a missing flashlight, as I recall. I’ve read your post-conviction petition, saw where you lost last week, and anyway the flashlight was presumed to have been destroyed. Right, Post?”
“That’s right.”
“Maybe it wasn’t destroyed.”
“That’s interesting,” I manage to say with calmness. “Does the rumor cover the part that reveals what Kenny did with the boxes of evidence?”