The following is an excerpt of the first six chapters of The Fifth Category in manuscript form.
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THE FIFTH CATEGORY
K. ROBERT CAMPBELL
COPYRIGHT 2006 BY K. ROBERT CAMPBELL
ISBN No. 978-1-4303-0202-5
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT OF REPRODUCTION IN WHOLE OR IN PART IN ANY FORM.
EXCEPT FOR HISTORICAL REFERENCES, THE CHARACTERS IN THIS BOOK ARE FICTIONAL. ANY
RESEMBLANCE TO ANY PERSON, LIVING OR DEAD, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.
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CHAPTER ONE
The buzz; it was still there, growing louder. Looking up from the litter of papers on the defense counsel table,
Cameron Scott scanned the courtroom. A cold chill gripped him when he saw the source of the buzz— the judge
was transforming into a man-sized hornet and rising into the air. The sound grew more piercing as Cameron
stared in horror. He looked to his right in desperation, trying to see the assistant district attorney’s reaction. No
reaction, no assistant DA— just the cold menacing eyes of another hornet, hovering over the prosecutor’s table.
Unable to move or speak, Cameron could only sit in cold terror as both giant hornets slowly winged toward him,
the buzz growing louder.
Cameron turned to run, but none of his limbs would function. All he could do was stand and wait for the
hornets’ acid sting. As the first stab seared through his back… he awoke.
At least he thought he was awake. He could feel the cold sweat of fear and pounding of his heart, but why did
he still hear the buzzing? Once the fog of sleep lifted a bit he realized that the sound of the bedside alarm had
penetrated his dreams. But he still felt the stabbing pain in his back. Rolling to his side and reaching to the
source of the pain, he found that he’d been lying on an ink pen. Rational thought dispelled the haze now. He
remembered writing some notes about today’s court hearing as he settled into bed the night before. The pen
must have dropped as he dozed off.
Reaching out to punch off the alarm, Cameron wondered why his wife Mary hadn’t been bothered enough by
the incessant noise to cut it off herself. Ah, right, she was off at a training session.
Mary was a control room supervisor at the nearby nuclear power plant and had been required to attend a
week-long anti-terrorist training session in Minneapolis. Cameron never slept well when she was gone; hence
the late-night note-taking.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Cameron hoisted himself from the bed and stumbled toward the bathroom,
stopping for a moment as he caught his reflection in the dresser mirror. After his fitful night’s sleep, the face that
stared back did not have the usual look of a man in his early forties. This morning, his blue eyes sunken and
hollow, he really looked his gray-haired late forties. Even his moderate paunch was a bit more pronounced.
Knowing that his usual activities kept him in better shape than he looked at the moment, Cameron made a
mental note to curb his sweet tooth.
His turned his gaze to a framed photo of Mary on the dresser and smiled. She was actually a few months
older than he, but even in this recent photo could pass for late thirties. She was about a head shorter than
Cameron’s six feet with an average build for her age and dark naturally curly hair. Her green eyes held a
perpetual look of mischief and Cameron found her more attractive now than he did the day they met while he
was in law school.
A glance at his nearby wristwatch told him he did not have much time for sentimental reflection so he
stretched and continued to the bathroom for his morning cleanup.
Feeling refreshed after his shave and shower, Cameron gathered his notes from the bed, pulled up the
covers in a facsimile of bed-making, and headed downstairs. On the way to the kitchen he threw the notes into
his open briefcase on a side table by the front door.
Breakfast was usually by rote; a bowl of frosted shredded wheat and a glass of orange juice. No thinking, no
deciding, mind clear for planning the day. By Cameron’s daily breakfast-time, Mary was dressed and out of the
house, since her control-room job started an hour before he went to his office. There was never an issue of
having breakfast together on work days; she didn’t like to eat first thing in the morning, and he didn’t like to talk
first thing in the morning.
Cameron’s breakfast thoughts this morning were about criminal court. He had several minor cases to handle
today, mostly traffic offenses that he could plea-bargain, and one felony first-appearance. If not for the
seriousness of the charges, the felony case could be considered a joke; his client had been caught literally with
his hand in the cookie jar. From the police report and an interview with the deputy who filed it, Cameron learned
that his client, a fisherman in Cameron’s southern coastal hometown of Riverport, broke into a small country
store at three in the morning. When his entry set off a silent alarm, the sheriff’s dispatcher issued the alert to a
patrolling deputy who was near the store.
Making a silent approach, the deputy got to the store in minutes, cutting off his lights shortly before arriving.
The owner, also alerted by the alarm, met the deputy outside the store and quietly unlocked a side door for him.
A lone man inside was noisily rattling something in front of him, cursing for all he was worth, and ambient light
from display cases enabled the deputy to stealthily approach him from behind.
Pistol in hand, the deputy snapped on a flashlight as he ordered the man to raise his hands. When the man
hesitated for a moment, the deputy took aim and barked the order again. The man raised both hands. His left
hand was empty but his right hand was stuck in a glass commercial cookie jar full of large, wrapped chocolate
chip cookies. Signaling the store owner to turn on the overhead lights, the deputy told the man to turn around.
The store owner and deputy immediately recognized the thief, the deputy having arrested him before on
minor misdemeanor charges and the store owner having seen him in the store on occasion. Apparently the man
had no car, or maybe no license, since he usually came to the store in someone else’s vehicle.
Despite his reputation as a drunk and drug user, the man generally was considered harmless. His name was
Steve Raeford but he was nicknamed “Fishbait” after a wolf fish bit off his right index finger years ago when he
worked on a fishing boat in Maine. Fishbait’s missing finger made some tasks difficult and it was causing him
trouble the night he got arrested. As Fishbait told the story, he was walking out in the country and got hungry.
Nothing being open that hour of the morning, he broke in to get something to eat. After fetching a sandwich and
cold drink from a lighted display case, he tried to get a cookie out of a jar with his bad hand. When the deputy
caught him, he was fumbling with one of the packages and in his panic couldn’t get his hand out of the jar.
When the deputy asked why he was walking on a road at least seven miles from his home at three in the
morning, Fishbait answered with a shrug and mumbled something about being restless. The deputy took him
before a magistrate, who set his bail, and then escorted Fishbait to a cell in the county jail. Since he broke into
the store with the intent to take something, Fishbait was charged with felony breaking and entering and larceny.
Explaining to Cameron why he entered the store without waiting for backup, the arresting deputy said there
were several previous incidents of neighborhood teenagers breaking into the store to steal beer. Seeing no cars
nearby, he figured the same kids were at it again and felt he would be in no serious danger.
CHAPTER TWO
Even after several years of practice, Cameron had yet to remove himself from the list of attorneys appointed
to indigent-criminal cases. There was no particular reason for the oversight except that he never seemed to be
in the right place at the right time to mention it to anyone. In fact Cameron often used his
“time/thought/opportunity convergence” excuse on Mary when chores got left undone; a chore had to come to
mind when he had time to do it and nothing else held priority.
Normally judges only assigned indigent cases to Cameron when newer attorneys were overloaded. Such was
the circumstance this week, and such was the reason Cameron was reflecting on Fishbait’s comedy of errors
over breakfast; Fishbait qualified for court-appointed counsel and the docket was busy enough for Cameron to
enter the rotation. Although he found time to review the case the day before, Cameron’s schedule was too
hectic for him to talk to Fishbait at the jail. He planned to take care of that after today’s first appearance, which
involved only the entry of a ‘not guilty’ plea and some other formalities.
After downing the last of his orange juice and clearing the table, Cameron headed out the door, grabbing his
briefcase on the way. He drove the few blocks from home to office because the courthouse was fifteen miles
away and he needed the car for that trip, as he did nearly every day.
Cameron just had time to say good morning to his three secretaries, new associate Ben, and receptionist
Nedra, and then check his messages before heading to the courthouse. Nedra drew his attention to the top
phone-message slip. The District Attorney’s office called to say that there was a problem concerning his client,
Mr. Raeford. According to Nedra, the caller gave no detail, saying they would talk to Cameron in court. Cameron
stuffed the slip into his pocket and left, wondering what prompted the cryptic message.
Cameron’s preferred mode of travel was his pickup truck, which was not unusual for attorneys in his rural
county. His Dodge Ram was a few years old and it fit him like a well-worn pair of shoes. The one alteration he
made was installation of a remote ignition device that started the truck with the push of a button on his key ring.
Remote ignition was not a factory option when he bought the truck, but years of car tinkering gave him the skills
to install the after-market starter himself. He bought it after a particularly harsh winter with too many hard shivers
waiting for the truck to warm up.
Ordinarily Cameron liked a little winter, the southern kind that doesn’t last too long and rarely dips below
freezing, but that winter brought sub-teen temperatures and a record snowfall to Riverport. It was one of several
weather aberrations plaguing the area
lately. The past spring, Cameron witnessed six ocean waterspouts one day and dime-size hail a few days later.
His town also saw a rise in hurricane activity over the last few years, both in number and intensity. Cameron,
who could form a theory for just about anything, figured that a recent el Niño weather disturbance in the Pacific
was adversely affecting Atlantic weather patterns.
Experts predicted twenty-five tropical storms for the current hurricane season, fourteen of which might reach
hurricane strength. By the end of July, twelve tropical storms had formed, three of which became hurricanes of
category two or less. Two of the hurricanes never reached land, and the remaining one exhausted itself to
tropical storm level by the time it reached Florida. It was now August, and as he listened to the radio on the way
to the courthouse, Cameron heard a meteorologist warn that tropical depression thirteen was forming off the
west coast of Africa. He made a mental note to pick up a supply of fresh batteries on the way home.
At the courthouse Cameron picked his way through the maze of hall-dwellers waiting for court to convene,
and headed into the downstairs courtroom where traffic cases, misdemeanors, and first-appearances were
heard. Assistant district attorney Bill Lutz was at the prosecutor’s table talking to some people with pink traffic
citations in their hands, presumably asking to have their charges reduced or their cases put off. Moving within
Lutz’s line of sight, Cameron held up the telephone-message slip he got from Nedra. Eventually Lutz looked up,
nodded acknowledgment that the message was his, and abruptly turned back to the business at hand. To
Cameron, Lutz looked nervous.
After a minute or two, Lutz finished talking to the pink-slip people and Cameron hurried over to speak with
him before anyone else came up. “I got your message about Fishbait” said Cameron, “but it didn’t really tell me
much.” Lutz hesitated for a moment before responding, seeming to grope for the right words. Finally, he said
“Yeah, well, there’s been a problem in the jail.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Your client didn’t get up this morning.”
“What, the jailers are allowing sleep-ins now?”
“Let me put it this way Scotty, your client won’t be getting up at all.”
Cameron’s face flushed as he drew closer to Lutz and said, “What the hell’s the matter with you, Bill? You
know I hate that nickname. I never should have told you about it when we were in law school.”
Looking flustered, Lutz answered, “I know, I’m sorry. I’m just.... Anyway, about your client....”
Cameron could tell something was troubling Lutz, but he had more pressing issues and asked, “Are you
telling me my client is dead?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“What happened?”
“We don’t know. He fell violently ill in the TV room last night during prisoner recreation time. By the time they
got him to the hospital, he was dead.”
“Was an autopsy done?”
“None was ordered and I doubt one will be done.”
Noting that Bill was avoiding eye contact, Cameron pressed on, “You mean to tell me a man in the sheriff’s
custody died of unknown causes and no one bothered to investigate? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I guess everyone figured he OD’d or something. Look, you know he’s a doper. Maybe somebody smuggled
bad stuff to him in the jail. He sure won’t be making a first appearance now, so why don’t you just forget him. You
know the State will still pay you for the time you’ve put in.”
“What’s gotten into you Bill? I can’t believe you’re ignoring standard procedure. You know damn well your
office is supposed to investigate jail deaths, especially if drugs are involved.”
Lutz folded his arms and made no response, so shaking his head, Cameron continued, “Look Bill, I know
Fishbait’s a doper, but he’s been clean for several months now. I see his sister Raylene a lot at the restaurant
where she works, and she’s been bragging on him.”
Cameron also knew that Fishbait’s sister was his only surviving relative in the state. Although close to forty,
she had never married. Instead she devoted her life to her brother, trying her best to keep him clean, sober,
and working. They shared a house in Riverport and Raylene’s work at the restaurant kept them fed and
sheltered. She was well liked by her customers, but seldom socialized.
Lutz opened his mouth as if to say something but shrugged instead. Cameron countered, “What the hell’s
gotten into you? Ever since we were study partners in law school I’ve known you to be a stickler for the rules.”
Lutz’s tone grew edgier, “All right Cameron, don’t push it. The DA says there’s nothing there to look into and
he has the authority to investigate or let it go. I’m just an assistant. End of story. You got any other cases today?
I’ve got people lined up.”
Frustrated, but seeing futility in pursuing the matter further, Cameron arranged the traffic pleas for his
remaining clients with Bill and entered them once court was in session. But the nightmare from which he awoke
just hours earlier kept creeping into his thoughts.
After taking care of some other matters in the register of deeds and clerk’s offices, and grabbing lunch at the
courthouse cafeteria, Cameron headed back to the office for the afternoon.
CHAPTER THREE
Cameron conducted a real estate closing and checked the day’s mail before turning to the pile of messages
that Nedra had handed him on his way past the front desk. Most were routine but one caught his eye
immediately. It was from Fishbait’s sister Raylene Raeford, who called while Cameron was at the courthouse.
Nedra noted on the message that Raylene would be home all day. When Cameron called, she picked up on the
first ring.
“Raylene, this is Cameron Scott. I just got back in from the courthouse. I heard about your brother and I’m
very sorry. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Thanks so much for calling right away, Mr. Scott”. Raylene always called him the formal ‘Mr. Scott’, even
when waiting his table at the restaurant. “I didn’t know where else to turn. I probably should be crying my eyes
out now, but I’m kind of in shock. Anyway, I’m not sure what to do with all of Steven’s things, especially the
money.”
“Well, first you need to call the funeral home where they took him and make arrangements with them for his
burial, or whatever.”
“I guess it’s too late for that, he’s already been cremated.”
“He’s been what?”
“You know, cremated. He’s already ashes.”
“Did you authorize that?”
“No. I asked the deputy that first called me where they took Steven and she told me it was already ‘taken care
of’. She said the funeral home would bring his ashes to me in some kind of container.”
Cameron paused for a moment, amazed at the additional rule violations, then answered, “As his closest kin,
you should have been the one to authorize a cremation, but we’ll come back to that. You’ll need to apply to the
clerk to be his estate administrator, assuming he had no will. I’ll help you with the preliminary paperwork, but the
rest should be pretty easy, since I don’t think he had very much, did he?” Cameron assumed that Fishbait and
Raylene lived hand-to mouth, doubting that Fishbait spent the money to have a will drawn.
“You’re right about the will, but not the rest. You see, Steven had ten thousand dollars cash money stuck
away in his dresser drawer. I’m off today, and was catching up on some laundry before the deputy called…”
“Wait a minute; they didn’t call you until this morning? I thought he went to the hospital last night.”
“The first I knew about it was this morning about nine o’clock. I just figured he spent another night out with
some of his friends, like he sometimes does… did.” She took a moment to regain her composure. “Anyway, as I
was putting away some of his socks, I noticed the bundle of hundreds. It was just kind of stuffed in the drawer,
not like he was really trying to hide it. I know it wasn’t there three days ago, because I’d put some clean socks in
the same drawer then.”
Cameron wondered if Fishbait had gone from using drugs to dealing, although he could not imagine Fishbait
surviving in that atmosphere for long. He asked Raylene, “Are you sure Fishbait… I mean Steven… has been
clean? You haven’t found any more drugs in any of his stuff?”
“I haven’t found anything, and he knows I check to be sure he doesn’t bring any of it into the house. That’s
the last thing I need is for him to get me busted.”
“…and he hadn’t shown any signs that he was using?”
“Nothing. I know how he gets when he’s doping, and he just didn’t have any of the signs. In fact, I told him just
the other day how proud I was that he was staying clean. He even spent last weekend trying to fix some of the
bricks and blocks that come loose on the barbecue pit out back of the house. Bless his heart, he wasn’t very
good at it.”
“He hasn’t been hanging around with anyone suspicious that you know of?”
“Not that I know of, but I’ve been working and don’t know who he might have seen during the day for the last
couple of days. But I’d think that if he was dealing he wouldn’t trust any place to put the stuff but home, and I
know he wasn’t keeping anything here. Like I said, I keep a pretty good check on things when I clean up, and
there’s not many hiding places here.”
“Hmm. That’s pretty strange. Listen, did he show any signs of bad health lately?”
“No. In fact I sent him to the clinic a couple weeks ago for a checkup, to see how his health was holding up
once he went clean. They said he hadn’t done himself any serious damage yet, and he should try to keep it that
way. That might be some of what kept him off the stuff up to now.”
“So you don’t have any idea of what might have… done him in?”
“No, but I wish you’d look into it. I’m getting over the shock some now and I’m just starting to get mad at how it
was handled. You think you can find anything out?”
“I’ll do what I can. You take care, and let me know if anything else comes up. I’ll try to get over to the jail
tomorrow and ask some questions. Meantime, find the safest place you can for that cash and let me know right
away if anyone asks about it. When you mentioned not knowing what to do with his money a while ago I thought
you meant his last paycheck or something. Hold off putting it in the bank though; something tells me it might not
be his.”
“I will. And thanks, Mr. Scott. I don’t have a whole lot to pay you, but…”
“Don’t worry; just pay what you can when you can.”
“Well, I appreciate that. You know how things have been.”
“I understand. I’ll try to hold the billings to a minimum. Take care.” Cameron’s mind was racing as he slid the
phone receiver onto its cradle. The “Cookie Caper” was becoming more bizarre at every turn. Fishbait, in jail for
something that would have pled out as a misdemeanor, dies for no apparent reason. The Sheriff and DA’s office
ignore procedure and order no autopsy and then hurry to have him cremated, somehow bypassing procedure
on that too. Then his sister finds a wad of cash stashed in a sock drawer with no explanation for its presence.
Cameron wondered if the authorities were aware of the cash yet, although he doubted it.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, Cameron had several matters to handle in the office before he could get to the
courthouse complex and arrived there just after lunchtime. He knew all the jailers pretty well, especially Elliott
Grainger, the one who had been on duty the night before. Elliott was a likable twenty-five year old, tall and lanky
with short black hair and as much mustache as the sheriff would allow his men to grow.
Cameron remembered when Elliott’s father, a Riverport policeman, was killed in service soon after Elliott
turned fifteen. The city paid Mrs. Grainger a modest widow’s pension but it fell on Elliott, the oldest of five
children, to take after-school jobs for the family to survive.
Cameron provided some of that work, hiring him to clean the office once a week. He also took Elliott under
his wing, serving more as a big brother than a father-figure and helping him through some rough times over the
loss of his dad.
Elliott finished high school on his mother’s and Cameron’s insistence, then got on as a deputy sheriff as soon
as he could finish basic law enforcement training. He married at twenty but still helped his mother with the
expense of raising his brothers and sisters by working extra shifts as a jailer. A few weeks ago, he told Cameron
that his youngest sibling was nearing high school graduation, so he planned to cut back on the overtime. His
goal now was to further his education and make his way to detective.
Cameron also recalled that at age twenty-one, Elliott had been arrested in a neighboring county for drunk
driving, a charge that could have cost him his law-enforcement career. Having consumed only one beer while
visiting a friend, not near enough to warrant the charges, he turned to Cameron for legal help.
Cameron’s investigation established that the arresting officer had not properly maintained the Breathalyzer,
which caused it to give a false reading. As a result, the prosecutor dismissed the charge before trial. Not only
did Elliott keep his job, but Cameron had refused to bill him for his services. A grateful Elliott told Cameron that
he was indebted to him and Cameron joked about getting a return of the favor some day, though he never
expected a repayment. It now looked like he needed to take Elliott up on the offer after all.
It was nearly two o’clock by the time Cameron could get to the jailhouse and Elliott was already back on duty.
After exchanging some small talk, Cameron brought up the subject of the previous evening’s events.
“Elliott, I think I may need to call in that favor we always talk about” he said bluntly, “and I’ll do it by asking you
to help me figure out a little bit about what happened in here the other night. Evidently, there’s no ongoing
investigation--in fact, there’s been no investigation at all as far as I can tell--so there shouldn’t be any problem in
your answering a few questions. You just tell me if you start to feel too uncomfortable about it, OK?”
“Sure, but if it’s about Fishbait dying here, who’s your client?”
“Fair enough. I can tell you it’s his sister. She’s a little upset about not being notified.”
“Well I don’t understand that. She’s the one who told EMS to take him straight on over to the funeral home
and don’t bother with an autopsy.”
Cameron tried not to register his surprise. “Did you talk to her?”
“Well, no, I didn’t talk to her direct, but that’s what I was told.”
“Who told you?”
Elliott hesitated, then said, “You told me to tell you if I felt uncomfortable, and I’m not sure if I should get
anybody else into this.”
“That’s all right; it’s not important. Just tell me what you feel you can.”
Elliott took a moment to collect his thoughts. “It was about eight o’clock, and the prisoners were in the TV
room. The low-risk ones are allowed to go in and have a smoke and watch television from about seven to nine
each night. The Sheriff doesn’t let them smoke anywhere else but there and the exercise yard, where there’s not
much that would catch fire very easy. Sometimes if there’s two of us on duty I’ll go down and watch a show with
them and smoke one of my own. If not, I have to lock them in and keep track on the monitor.”
“Was Fishbait smoking?”
“He sure was.”
“Where do they usually keep their cigarettes?”
“We keep them at the desk. If they had any when they’re brought in, or if anybody brings them some, we stick
a name label on them, and pass the packs out at the TV room. That’s where Fishbait was when we gave him his
pack.”
“So, Fishbait had some cigarettes on him when he got picked up?”
“Well now that you mention it, no. His sister brought him some; or at least I guess it was his sister.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, I never really saw her; one of the new morning jailers did. She told me a lady showed up during
morning shift saying she was his sister and that she wanted him to have his cigarettes and some candy bars,
too. It wasn’t visiting hours, so they ran it all through x-ray to be sure nothing was hidden inside, labeled it all for
him, and told him it was there. He seemed a little surprised that she brought the cigarettes. He said she didn’t
usually like him smoking but guessed it was because he was in the jail and she felt sorry.”
Cameron thought it curious that Raylene had not mentioned her visit to the jail, and made a mental note to
question her about it. “OK, what happened in the TV room?”
“I left Wagoner, the other jailer, back at the desk and went down to the TV room to watch over things there. I’
d passed out everybody’s cigarettes and they were watching some comedy show while they smoked. Fishbait
had just lit up when he all of a sudden started choking and rolled over sideways. I couldn’t do a whole lot right
away, because we have to get everybody back in their cells if something unusual happens.”
“And how did you get them all out?”
”I called on the intercom for Wagoner to bring some trustees to help get everybody back. There weren’t but
five prisoners in there to begin with, so that didn’t take long. Meantime, I could see that Fishbait was starting to
turn blue, so I called the 911 center direct on my radio. Before I could do much more, he was a goner. By that
time, I wasn’t feeling too good my self for some reason.”
“How long did it take the medics to get there?”
“Only a couple minutes. They were there by the time Wagoner got everybody cleared out of the room. His
sister left a cell-phone number when she brought the cigarettes so Wagoner called to tell her that her brother
was on the way to the hospital. The EMT’s told me he was already dead, but we didn’t tell her that.”
“Why not?”
“We’re supposed to let the doctors do that, since none of us were qualified to pronounce him dead.”
“That makes sense. What happened to his belongings?”
“Wagoner said we should send them out with the rescue people because Fishbait wouldn’t be coming back. I
told him since he was almost off duty, he might as well go to the hospital in case they needed more information. I
was feeling better by then after rescue gave me some oxygen. Wagoner wanted me to go and him stay and
straighten up the TV room, but I told him I was senior officer on duty and would have to be the one to stay. I also
told him I’d take care of the TV room. He wanted to argue, but I told him to go on.”
“The cigarettes went with the rescue crew then?”
“Either that or Wagoner took them with him. I really didn’t pay that much attention to where they went, but I
know we don’t still have them. Even if they got thrown away, we empty the trash every day so they’re probably at
the landfill by now. How come you’re so interested in those?”
“Oh, just trying to check everything out.” Cameron actually was trying to decide if the cigarettes had caused
Fishbait to choke up somehow, but did not want the jailer to know where he was headed with the inquiry. “Did he
eat any of the candy?”
“No, he never got a chance to. We sent that on with his other things that were still at the front desk.”
Cameron concluded the interview. “Listen, Elliott, I appreciate you answering my questions, and I have one
more small favor to ask, and then I’ll consider us even. I’d like to go down and check out the TV room.”
“I’m not supposed to let anybody but the prisoners and jail personnel down there, but I do owe you big time.
Just don’t tell nobody I let you in. Or if anybody sees you, tell them you took a wrong turn.” Trying to ease Elliott’
s nervousness, Cameron grinned as he responded: “I just hope they won’t try to keep me.”
Elliott pressed the buttons for the electronic locks, and waved Cameron on to the now-empty TV room.
CHAPTER FIVE
Cameron was not sure what he wanted to look for in the TV room. He was still trying to digest the new
information Elliott had divulged, especially the revelation that Raylene actually knew that night about Fishbait's
death and apparently authorized his cremation. He could not understand why she would lie about that and then
send him on a mission that would uncover the truth. But, then, Elliott said he had not seen Raylene and thus
would not know if it really was her. Did Fishbait have a girlfriend that Raylene was not aware of? And if so why
would she pretend to be his sister?
As he entered the TV room, Cameron put the lingering questions aside and turned his thoughts to inspecting
the room. There was not much to take in. The television was firmly attached to a steel table, which itself was
firmly attached to one wall of the room.
There were three rows of five heavy plastic seats facing the television, each bolted to the floor. Molded into
the arm of each seat was a depression that served as an ashtray. Steel benches were attached to two walls,
meeting at a steel table in the corner. The table also had indentations that served as ashtrays. The overall
impression was of a room that contained nothing that could be thrown or taken out, and it obviously had been
cleaned that morning, since the ashtrays were all empty.
Looking up the painted cinderblock walls toward the ceiling, Cameron could see two small surveillance
cameras on opposite corners and surmised they had wide-angle lenses that could sweep the entire room at one
time. He avoided looking directly into either one. Next to the entry door there was an intercom with a push
button. Cameron walked over to it and pressed. As he expected, Elliott’s voice sounded from the intercom
speaker: “Yes, are you ready to come out now?”
“Not quite yet, Elliott. Do you recall where Fishbait was sitting when he started to choke?”
“Yessir, right over on the metal bench, at the wall opposite where you are. I was on that other bench.”
Cameron realized that Elliott, ever the diligent jailer, was watching him on the surveillance screen.
“Thanks Elliott, I’ll buzz again when I’m ready to come out.”
Hearing no response, Cameron began looking around the room again. He still did not know what he was
looking for, but hoped something would present itself. While that hope remained in his mind, his gaze dropped to
the floor below the bench that Elliott had mentioned. He leaned down a bit so that he could see the back wall
under the bench.
Bingo. There unnoticed by whichever trustees had been sweeping the last two days was a cigarette butt, in
the juncture of wall and floor. It was not much, but in the otherwise sterile room, it offered some possible
information. Cameron sensed that Elliott was still monitoring his movements within the room. He needed a
diversion to mask his actions when he retrieved the only bit of evidence he had found. Realizing he had his
hand-held dictation recorder in his pocket, he took it out and began speaking into it. As he strolled toward the
bench, still feigning dictation, he let the recorder slip from his hand. As he had hoped, the battery compartment
opened on impact, and recorder, battery cover, and batteries scattered in different directions, one battery rolling
under the bench.
Slumping his shoulders and trying to give his best impersonation of an embarrassed klutz, Cameron leaned
down and began picking up the scattered pieces. When he came to the errant battery under the bench, he did
his best to block the camera view with his body as he scooped up battery and cigarette butt at one time. Shaking
his head, still in mock embarrassment, he quickly slid all the pieces into his pocket, walked over to the intercom
and pressed the button.
Elliott was laughing as Cameron approached the front desk to make his exit. “Boy, I’m glad you didn’t get that
clumsy when you were handling my case.”
Cameron faked a quizzical look, saying, “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“I was watching you on the TV screen here. You had to have seen the cameras in there.”
Now trying to look sheepish, Cameron replied “Ohmygosh, I did see them, but I didn’t know I had an audience
while I was in there.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you, but it was funny. Anyway, I still have to do my job here, so I’m sorry I had to
keep an eye on you.”
“I understand. I guess I should have expected it,” Cameron laughed. “Now my face is red.” It was red, but
more from the exertion of leaning under the bench than from embarrassment.
CHAPTER SIX
Cameron went straight back to the office, waded through paperwork and caught up on telephone calls, then
went home and ate a quick supper. Today was the last day of Mary’s seminar and she was supposed to fly
home in the morning. He missed her and never felt quite right when she was not there. He waited long enough
for her to eat and get back to her room before calling and she picked up on the second ring, saying “Love you,
miss you.”
Laughing, Cameron responded “How do you know who you’re loving and missing? It could have been the
front desk.”
“Nah, I could tell it was you by the way the phone rang.”
“If you’ve become that much of a clairvoyant, I should curb my dirty thoughts. I miss you, too.”
They settled into a couple’s conversation, catching each other up on the day’s activities. She’d been learning
how to spot irregular behavior in her co-workers that could indicate involvement in terrorist activities. “Oh,
great,” he said, “our lights will be going out because everyone at the power plant is too busy watching each
other instead of the controls.”
She laughed, and he told her that most of his day had been pretty ordinary, except for one developing case.
Mary knew that he could not give her much detail without revealing confidential information. She had to settle for
a general recital about a prisoner who had died under odd circumstances and the fact that Cameron had been
“retained” to look into those circumstances.
Toward the end of the conversation, Mary told Cameron that he should watch the news tonight and see what
was happening in the tropics. The television news she had seen at the hotel that morning gave passing mention
of a developing storm, but without the detail their home station would give. Knowing that Mary was scheduled to
attend a dinner and late sessions last night, Cameron had foregone calling her and had worked on some cases
with the television off, so he was unaware of the storm warnings. He promised her that he would watch the news
tonight, and they said their goodbyes. Her mention of the storm reminded him that he had forgotten to buy
batteries on the way home and he promised himself that he would pick them up tomorrow.
Trying to relax a little, Cameron watched a few comedy shows on television, hoping Elliott hadn’t seen
through his little comedy earlier in the day. He had sealed the cigarette butt in a plastic bag, planning to take it
to a chemist friend on his way to the airport to pick up Mary tomorrow morning.
Finally, the evening news came on. The local news emanated from Whittington, a port city about twenty miles
north of Riverport, and the only city in that part of the state large enough to support television stations. Not
much newsworthy had happened in Whittington that day, and Cameron wondered why no mention was made of
the jail death in its neighboring county. He guessed that poor Fishbait did not even rate a passing mention.
Shortly, the weather report began. Cameron was surprised to learn that not only had the tropical depression
off of Africa strengthened to a tropical storm overnight, but two more depressions were forming in the
Caribbean. The new tropical storm--number thirteen— had been given the name “Mary”. “So that’s really why
she wanted me to watch the weather” thought Cameron. “If this one packs the energy of my Mary, we’re in for
trouble.”