In One Ear (eBook)

— 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...