Free Eyes of the Predator by Glenn Trust Page B

hulking man who filled their lives with
misery. She shook her head trying to drive the memory away and the picture of
her tearful mother firmly pushing her out of the house.
    “You warm enough?”
    She turned her head slightly. The
young man’s voice brought her back to the here and now. It was the one called
Clay.
    “What?” she said softly.
    “You warm enough? You shuddered.
Thought maybe you were getting cold. We can turn the heat up some if you want.”
    “No, I’m fine,” she replied
staring out the window into the pre-sunrise dark. Headlights approached and
passed on the southbound side of the interstate in a streaming blur. It was
hypnotic.
     Lyn closed her eyes. She
was tired.
    The two brothers exchanged looks
over her head as Lyn leaned unknowingly, on Clay’s shoulder. Small breathing
sounds escaped her partially open mouth as she drifted off.
    “She sleeping?” Cy, the older
brother and driver whispered.
    “Reckon so,” Clay whispered back
with an eyebrow shrug.
    “Gonna be a long day for her.”
    “Yeah. Looks like it’s been a
long night too.”
    The pickup rushed on in the dark. The brothers sat
quietly, staring up the highway and listening to the girl’s soft snores. 

20.                            Crime Scene
    Pungent diesel fumes from the
generator on the county’s fire department light truck hung heavily in the damp
night air. The garish white light seemed to turn all color into shades of gray.
Even the blood pooled around the shriveled, lifeless form of Harold Sims was
just a darker charcoal gray seeping into the gravel.
    The noisy hum of the generator
drowned out the night sounds. The light and droning white noise gave the little
churchyard an isolated, surreal feel.
    Two firefighters stood by the
light truck drinking coffee and talking, watching what was going on. Every now
and then, one would adjust the throttle on the light generator.
    George Mackey stood beside his
pickup ‘preserving the crime scene’. The assignment left him little to do in
reality. Sandy Davies was the primary on the call and would handle all county
follow-up. Of course, there were the Georgia State Patrol troopers who had
gathered at the scene when the call went out. Standing, huddled around one of
their high-speed pursuit cars, they talked quietly. A couple of them smoked.
Their voices were hushed, almost reverent as if they were in church, or at a
funeral. They also had no real function here, but what the hell, you didn’t
find an old man dead in a churchyard every night, at least not in this part of
Georgia, not in Pickham County. Mr. Sims’ lonely, painful demise in the dark
parking lot would be a remembered thing in these parts. Deputies and troopers
on duty would spend a lot of time talking about the crime scene and their
presence that night, even if they had no part in the subsequent investigation.
They weren’t happy about Harold Sims’ death, but he was dead and being there was
definitely something.
    A deputy or state trooper in
Pickham County might go years, even his whole career, without handling one
murder. Accidental hunting shootings, sawmill accidents, traffic deaths, bar
fights, yes, but a for real, stabbed through the kidney, bled to death in the
dust, whodunit murder? Those didn’t come around often, maybe never again. The
death of Mr. Harold Sims, black male, five feet-eight, thin build, seventy-nine
years of age would be remembered.
    An investigator from the Georgia
Bureau of Investigation stood with Sandy asking him questions. Occasionally, he
would gesture at the body, the crime scene, or the woods, and Sandy would
respond in short, direct sentences. It was clear that Sandy didn’t care for the
intervention from the GBI, but it was policy with the sheriff’s department in
Pickham County that all homicides were referred to the GBI. It was that way in
many rural counties, and it made sense. They handled these cases routinely.
    The GBI man gave a nod