The Last Mile (Amos Decker 2)

Bogart shook his head. “I can’t believe Thurman Huey would be involved in something like that.”

Decker said, “If Roy Mars has evidence that Huey was involved in the church bombing, and that evidence comes to light, Huey won’t just lose his career, he could very well end up in prison for the rest of his life. Given that, I think the man might be capable of anything.”

Mars said, “What sort of evidence would my dad have?”

“Whatever was in the

safe deposit box,” said Decker.

In a shaky voice Mars said, “You think he was involved in the bombings?”

“I don’t know, Melvin. But somehow he ended up with something that will bury some very powerful men. No wonder he went on the run and changed his name.”

Mars tried to say something but nothing came out. He finally just shook his head.

Decker returned the book to the shelf while the others headed to the door. He had a sudden thought, opened the yearbook to a certain page, scanned down it, and then ripped the page out and put it in his pocket. He did this one more time with another page. He replaced the book on the shelf and joined the others as they headed back to the car.

They all climbed in and Bogart started it up. He said, “Okay, we have a lot of work ahead of us. But as I said before, we step lightly. I don’t want any specific details getting out to the locals.”

“Oh crap,” said Jamison, who was looking out the rear window. “I think it’s too late.”

They all turned.

A police cruiser was pulling up behind them.

CHAPTER

59

TWO MALE OFFICERS got out. They were both in their forties, a bit gray around the temples, a bit soft around the middle. They walked up, one on either side of the car.

Bogart rolled down his window. He already had his FBI ID out.

The officer leaned in. “How you folks doing?”

“Just fine, Officer,” said Bogart.

The man looked at the ID. “Right. We heard y’all were in town. It’s why we’re here. Chief McClellan wanted to know if there was anything at all that we could do to assist you in whatever you’re investigating?”

“We appreciate that very much,” said Bogart. “But right now I can’t think of anything.”

Decker was staring out the passenger window at the officer parked there staring back at him. One of the man’s hands rested on the butt of his service pistol.

Decker gave him a nod and a smile.

Neither was returned.

The officer at Bogart’s window said, “Just as a matter of professional courtesy do you think y’all could find the time to come meet with the chief? He prides himself on knowing all that goes on here, and I think you might find him an asset to help you in whatever it is that brought you to our fine town.”

Though it was spoken as a request, the tone of the words suggested that a refusal would not be very welcome.

“Certainly,” said Bogart.

They followed the patrol car back to a different station from the one where they had met Pierce, parked, and then the officers escorted them inside and down the hall. One of them rapped on a door that was fronted with a plaque reading Roger G. McClellan, Chief of Police.

“Come on in,” said a firm voice.

The officer opened the door, motioned the four in, and then shut the door behind them.

The office was large, twenty by twenty, with fine paneling and shelves holding a lifetime of awards and commendations in the law enforcement field. One wall was the photo wall of fame, showcasing McClellan in the company of various dignitaries, professional athletes, and famous singers, mostly country and western. In one area of the space were leather chairs and a comfortable couch and a coffee table with an assortment of magazines on it, predominantly cop and gun publications.

The state flag of Mississippi stood in a holder behind the enormous, intricately carved desk.

There was no sign of the Stars and Stripes.

Sitting behind the desk was a tall man who, despite his advancing years, looked fit and trim. He was wearing his dress uniform, the chest festooned with medals and ribbons. His gray mustache was trimmed and his thinning hair was slicked back. His face looked like a slab of granite that had been worked over by rushing water for a couple of centuries.

He rose and put out a hand. “Chief McClellan,” he said, shaking hands with each of them. “Please, take a seat.” He came around the desk and directed them to places among the couch and chairs before sitting down across from them.

“Y’all want something to drink? Coffee ain’t half bad, but we got some bottled water too.”

They politely declined.

McClellan sat back and looked them over. “I appreciate you coming on in. Sure you can understand that when the FBI comes calling I prick up my ears.”

“Absolutely. I take it you talked to Ms. Pierce?” said Bogart.

“Hell, I didn’t need to rely on that. Fact is, in a small town, news travels fast. Eyes and ears everywhere.” He reached over with a long arm and picked up a mug off his desk and took a sip from it.

Decker noted that the cup was imprinted with the words Virtute et armis.

McClellan saw him looking and said, “Official motto of the great state of Mississippi.”

“‘By valor and arms,’” said Decker.

“You read Latin?”

“No, I just remember seeing it somewhere.”

McClellan put down the mug. “So what brings you folks here?” He gazed around until he stopped on Mars. “Now, I know you. But you’re not FBI.”

“No, I’m Melvin Mars.”

“Damn, yes you are. Watched you play football when you were in college. Now, I’m an Ole Miss grad, played ball for ’em too. Glad I never had to tackle you. Like a Mack truck with a Ferrari engine. Helluva player, son.”

“Thanks.”

Decker closed his eyes while McClellan was talking, and then a light seemed to click on in his head as he made the relevant connection.

Ole Miss.

He opened his eyes.

McClellan said, “And I heard about your, um, situation. Glad you’re out now. Seemed like quite an injustice.”

“I saw it that way,” said Mars tersely.

McClellan swiveled his attention back to Bogart. “So, anything you can tell me?”

“We’re just looking into some things from the past that may have bearing on a more recent case.”

McClellan nodded. “Look, I’m not going to waste your time, Agent Bogart. I’m busy and I know you’re busy. I know you’ve been making inquiries about the bombing of the church that took place here in 1968. As you know, no one was ever arrested. Damn