Meeting The Sheriff
Many many thanks to Jim for doing this with me. I'm looking forward to working with Chuck Mayfield. Thanks, Jim!--Maer
Thursday 21 Jul 2011
Adams County Sheriff Department
306 State Street, Natchez
1430hrs, local time
The morning had dawned hot and steamy and while a good percentage of the moisture had burned off by noon, enough remained to make the rest of the day a soggy hell. Or so it felt to Irina. She'd flown in before noon and driven in from Alexandria in her rental. Lunch beckoned but true to form she had to take care of business first. Grierson's letter of introduction was tucked in her travel bag and if she wanted to work without looking over her shoulder, she needed to deliver it.
"Well, don't have much contacts in Mississippi, but I can give you a lead with the sheriff down there. Chuck Mayfield. Recently elected sheriff. He did some work with us up here back in ‘07. Tracking drugs from the Gulf up to the City. Bit of a cracker, but he’s true blue." Or so Grierson told her over lunch two weeks ago. "I'll call Chuck, ask about this agency down there. What's the name? Who's with them? I can also get you a letter of introduction, let him know you'll be in the area for a while. It's always good to show respect." He'd had the letter in her hands before the day was out. And now she stood on the simmering sidewalk outside the Adams County Sheriff Department. Irina took a deep breath of the thick air and pushed through the doors.
Showtime. Look sharp.
She cleared the doors, pulled off her sunglasses and stood aside as she waited for her eyes to adjust.
The deputy behind the duty desk looked up when the bell attached to the door tinkled. "Afternoon, ma'am," he drawled. "Something we can do for you?" He wore the crisp, pressed uniform of Adams County Sheriff's Department, two bars on his collar showing him to be a step up from a patrol officer. The phone rang, and he nodded towards the row of hard plastic chairs by the counter with a doubtful looking coffee maker and magazines several months past their prime. "Jus' have a seat, someone be right with you," he said. "Sheriff's office, is they an emergency?" he spoke into the mouthpiece.
Irina took the seat indicated, grateful that it was cooler inside than outside. She skimmed the magazines with a practiced eye--nothing out of place for a Sheriff's office--and looked around the room. Desks, phones, computers, tired coffee service. Notices on bulletin boards. Entrances and exits. She kept her face pleasant and neutral and shamelessly eavesdropped on the half of the telephone conversation that she could hear. If nothing else, it would give her an idea as to what the town was like, crimewise.
Chuck Mayfield poked his head out, and saw that his appointment was early. "What the hell you expect from a New Yorker?" he thought to himself. He straightened his tie, and pushed his thinning hair back on his half exposed scalp. He gathered himself to make a smooth entrance into the lobby.
He held his hand out stiffly, upright, like shaking with a man. "Ms. DiSanti, I presume?" he said, with the smooth, consonant filled accent known as 'Southern Country Club'. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Step into my office, please."
"Sheriff Mayfield," Irina rose and shook his hand, one professional to another. "It's a pleasure. I realize you're busy. Thank you for making the time to see me."
She didn't linger but followed him into his office, noting the details as she went. Rear hallway, exit to the left, restrooms ...
Mayfield took a seat behind his wide walnut desk. His degree from Ole Miss hung on the wall over his head, between the two floor-to-ceiling windows. "You come highly recommended. Understand you're with the Franklin Agency now." He spoke in short clipped phrases, eyes measuring his appointment, taking note of the probable weapons stashed on her. "Always good to make professional introductions."
He steepled his fingers, and looked Irina in the eye. "Tell me about Franklin. Paper work was sent in registered from Montana, all discussion through registered mail. Never had a formal visit from one of the agents here in the office." He rested his chin on his joined hands. "What is this agency all about?"
Irina sat in the chair before his desk.
"I wish I could tell you, sir." She leaned down and pulled Grierson's letter from her bag. It made a crisp clean rectangle on the glossy desk. "I haven't yet started at the Franklin Agency. They contacted me via email out of the blue on the evening of 22 June. It was a job offer and it was very persuasive. I was barely limping along with my own investigation business and their terms were generous. A bit too generous. It pinged my radar and I did a little digging, thought the records came up a little light. That's when I decided to let them fly me down here for a job interview and hire me for the position.
"I'm licensed for the state of New York," she said, pulling out her PI credentials and putting it next to the letter. "And while the state of Mississippi currently has no licensing requirements for Private Investigators, I believe it behooved me to make my presence and my intentions known to you and the law enforcement of Natchez. My Lieutenant thought the same." She nodded toward the letter. "I intend to discover what the Franklin Agency is doing in Natchez, sir, to determine if they really are who they say they are. If they are legit, no harm done. If they are doing anything illegal, I intend to gather evidence solid enough to convict them. That is why I agreed to be flown out here to be interviewed for a position as an investigator for their agency and why I accepted the position when they told me it was mine if I wanted it."
Irina pulled her gun license from her wallet. It joined the letter and her credentials.
"I'm legal to carry concealed in the state of New York. My weapon is locked up in my bag, in the trunk of my car, checked through for my flight as per regulations. If you wish to inspect it, I would be pleased to have you do so. I am aware that there is no reciprocal recognition between Mississippi and New York at the moment as to my license, so I am formally giving you notice of my intention to become a legal resident of Mississippi pursuant of my employment at the Franklin Agency and to apply for a CCW license as soon as I am allowed to do so. Until then I will be happy to follow any gun regulations necessary until I acquire my license for this state."
She sat a little straighter in her chair and looked the Sheriff in the eye.
"I am here for the long haul, sir. I have given up New York for Natchez and I'm looking to make a fresh start. What I've seen here during my interview trip of 25 June has only convinced me that I will do well here." A truth, one she didn't mind sharing. "Leaving New York City wasn't hard." A half truth, because it wasn't easy. "I realize that I am asking much for a newcomer to your town, but may I have your permission to investigate my new employers and share any pertinent information I find? Is there anything I can do to make your job easier?"
A bit much for anyone to take in all at once, but we might as well put all our cards on the table. Professional reciprocity starts now.
Mayfield sat back in his chair, visibly relaxing. "You're asking all the right questions. Same questions I had," he said in his cultured drawl. "Best thing I can ask you to do for me, to help out my department, is be patient. This ain't New York, and folks down here take it slower."
He leaned forward, opening the top left drawer and pulled out a yellow legal pad and a Bic pen. He started writing out a list, noting each subject as he wrote. "There are a few crimes that Franklin might or might not be involved in, but these are what my department's working on, and each one of these are sensitive; IF you poke into any of these, please keep me abreast of what you find, and I'll give you what details we uncover:
"Over the last six months, there have been four murders that seem somehow related. Victim outside, not near their house, multiple stab wounds, needle pricks, exsanguinated."
"Doctor Murphrey killed inside his house, Helter Skelter style. Occult overtones. Few things taken, to make it look on the surface like a botched robbery. No apparent connection to the string of recent outside murders."
"Dreama McCullen, librarian. Missing persons report. Current theory is suicide; she was reported to be very depressed lately. Her habits had changed recently; her laptop showed lots of late, late night online activity. Sensitive, because of recent murder string."
"Report phoned in, anonymous tip, about an attack last night behind the post office. Caller was a man, apparently middle aged, refused to identify. This morning, investigating officer reported blood and torn up grass, sign of a struggle but no body. Other cases, body was left at the scene. Caller claimed to have rescued the victim but refused to name said victim."
Mayfield looked up from his legal pad, and ripped off the top sheet to hand across the desk. "Also, the usual; lost pet, neighbor disputes, some domestics. Working on a theory tying all the listed ones together." Leaning forward across the desk, the sheriff spoke quietly. "Any leads you get, keep me in the loop. Check in with ME, not the department. Like I said, I got a theory, and it involves serious money."
He leaned back again, and steepled his fingers across his chest. "One thing same here as in New York. If money is involved, you got to keep the investigation close." He smiled, and asked lazily, "So what else can I or the department do to make you feel at home here?"
Irina took the sheet and swept it once, then looked up at Mayfield.
"Absolutely," she said, matching her tone to his. She skimmed over the sheet again, her eye pausing on the words needle pricks. Exsangination + needle pricks = …? "Sir, were needle pricks found on all the victims? Including Doc Murphy? May I see the M.E.'s reports on them? Exsanguination is damned odd, even for New York with its share of head jobs, and if it's the COD the case just gets odder. This latest vic, though,"she added. "About the thwarted attack. That caller. Any further leads? Is the crime scene still taped off and if so, might I take a look at it? I …" Irina closed her eyes and shook her head.
"Sorry," she sighed with a self-deprecating grimace. "Habit. You can take the girl off the force, but you can’t take the force out of the girl, you know? Cases like this one? I lived for these, ate them for breakfast. Ran the perps down and nailed them. And if I had my druthers, I'd still be doing it." She straightened, her chin firming with resolve. "But to answer your last question, I would feel most at home if you kept me in the loop and let me help you with this case. I am aware that Natchez is a beautiful town and reputation is everything, especially to the old families here. If word of this got out, it would hurt a lot of people above and beyond those already harmed by the sick bastards doing this." She raised the sheet for emphasis. "If it wouldn't step on any toes, may I go over the paperwork on this from start to finish? To get me up to speed? That way I won't waste anyone's time by reinventing the wheel. And if it would spare me having to interview the victim's families, it would be a blessing. They've been through enough."
The sheriff sat back in his chair, his arms raised, palms towards the New Yorker. "Well, I appreciate your interest, but let's take it one step at a time," he said, before lowering his hands onto the gleaming wood of his walnut desk. "What I really need help from you on is finding which, if any, of these cases Franklin Agency is working on, or plans to work on." Pulling open the second drawer down on the left of his desk, he pulled out an official looking form. "I'm going to sign off on your concealed carry permit, and this is a form for you to be deputized as an unpaid volunteer, available for posses and consultation with the department." He quickly signed the paper and slid it across the desk.
"For yourself, I'd recommend finding a place to live, get familiar with where the grocery stores and restaurants are, and get the lay of the land," he advised. "Once we know what Franklin wants you to work on, I'll give you more information on THAT part." He smiled, but his eyes were dead serious. "If Franklin is working on all of this as one big case, don't bother waiting until you get here to tell me. Call me, and I and every deputy I can scrounge will be there with guns."
Leaning back comfortably again, the sheriff nodded. "We'll get you information for what you're working on; always good to work with outside information sources. But this ain't New York, and you ain't on the force. I can't just turn my whole investigation over to you, despite this pretty letter."
Irina signed the paperwork and at the Sheriff's last comment, she paused in sliding the forms across the desk. Too strong, DiSanti, you came on too strong. Now you've queered it. Shit. Bitterness hovered at the back of her throat when she realized she'd just ruined her chance at the case. She'd have to work twice as hard to earn Mayfield's trust after this and any evidence she turned over to him had better be rock solid. Even so, she wondered why Mayfield was so hot to collar the Franklin Agency if they were investigating the murders. They were in the investigation business. If they were legally hired by the victim's families, it hardly warranted arrest. Something else was in play here and she suspected it was a matter of regional pride and a marking of territory. Mayfield's description of the Agency's acquisition of property and their arrival did seem irregular and she got the impression that folk around here resented incursions from the North. That included uppity city girls coming in with both guns blazing.
Cool it. Be nice. Go slow.
Which advice came a little late, but hopefully not too late to salvage the situation.
"It’s your town, sir, and it's your case. My enthusiasm overstepped my manners and I apologize. You've been more than generous with me when you didn't have to." She pushed the paperwork a few inches closer and put the pen on top. "Thank you."
Mayfield laughed as he stood, and leaned across his desk, hand extended. "I like you, Ms. DiSanti. You got, excuse my language, balls!" He shook her hand, and added, "If you want local color, some of the big houses in town rent out mother-in-law suites. If you want comfort and privacy, there's vacancies at the Mark apartments. Near downtown, and walking distance to your boss' place at Longwood. I appreciate your enthusiasm, and your buddy's letter warned me you'd be a bulldog. I guess it's been too soon since you came on down here, and too long since I been up to the City. If you'll excuse me, I got some paperwork. You can get the concealed carry from the desk, and I'll notarize and sign off on it."
He smiled brightly. "But thank you, Ms. DiSanti. You've got ME more fired up to solve this case, now."
"Thank you, sir," Irina said, shaking his hand and giving him a smile--one she refused to show her relief. "You've been more than kind. Here's my card," she added, pulling one from her wallet and crossing out her old P.O. Box. "I haven't had new ones printed yet, but you can reach me at this number 24/7. Please let me know if there is anything you need."
Recognizing a dismissal when she heard one, Irina didn't linger but let herself out to the desk sergeant where the promised paperwork waited for her.
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