What She Saw - 5

CJ Taggart

9 Hours Until

Sheriff CJ Taggart was already pissed. And his day hadn’t started.

He backed his Crown Vic into his reserved spot at the Dawson sheriff’s office. He shoved the gear into park and shut off the engine. He didn’t like to start the day mad. And he’d thought leaving the marines and moving back east would solve that. It hadn’t.

He pushed out a breath, climbed from the car, and grabbed his hat and settled it on his flattop haircut. As he crossed the cracked asphalt, he fumbled with his keys and found the one that opened the station’s back door. The door open, he heard the slow, steady voice of Deputy Sean Duke, who worked the night shift. He’d been with the department for fifteen years and manned the phones and jail.

Taggart passed the framed photos of the five other men who’d served as Dawson’s sheriff. They all had a stern, rigid stance that reminded him of himself. Law enforcement attracted a personality type.

The dispatcher was trying to reason with a caller complaining about a noisy neighbor. Taggart didn’t need to hear the caller to know: loud music, partying, fast cars cutting doughnuts on a dirt road. Standard small-town stuff that he now wanted in his day.

The Mountain Music Festival loomed today. Despite assurances that this was a family-friendly event, the festival had been tossing out warning signs. The festival proposal had been thin on details. As soon as he’d read it, Taggart had called Mayor Briggs and talked about pulling the plug on the event.

Briggs shot down Taggart’s objections over the poor security, limited venue entries and exits, and minimal toilet facilities. If his worries played out, too many people were going to descend onto Dawson tonight.

He’d thought civilian life would be different from the military. He’d thought guys who’d never worn a uniform would be more adept at making decisions. He’d assumed that outside of the military, civilians made more logical choices. But guys like Mayor Briggs proved him wrong. Incompetent higher-ups existed in all walks of life.

Taggart and Deputy Jed Paxton were the only LEOs available to work the festival’s security tonight. Despite assurances from the mayor, he worried this event was an accident waiting to happen.

“What could go wrong?” the mayor had asked.

Taggart had forbidden that question among his long-range recon team when they were in North Vietnam. Anyone stupid enough to tempt Fate found himself isolated by the unit and exposed to land mines, stray bullets, or a fall off a cliff. Fate had no problem punishing the naive or stupid.

He moved into his office and hung his hat on a peg behind his desk, which had a pile of pink message slips on it. He’d already learned that most calls were mundane. But to assume there were no issues would irritate Fate.

“Sheriff.”

Taggart met his deputy’s gaze. Jed Paxton was twenty-two and had been with the department a year. Paxton had been born in Dawson, and his father had once been mayor of the town. Paxton was tall, with big shoulders and thick black hair. He had been the star of the local football team, and women still flirted with him because he’d always be the high school hero.

By the same age, Taggart had been a marine for five years, been shot in Vietnam, and completed a sixty-day rehab stint in a Tokyo military hospital. For Taggart’s twenty-second birthday, Uncle Sam had ordered him to Okinawa as a military police officer.

“What do you need, Deputy?” Taggart asked.

“Mayor Briggs is on his way. He wants to talk to you about the music festival.”

“Is there an issue?” He’d written a detailed critique of the festival proposal.

“He’s not happy with your security recommendations.”

No surprise that the mayor had not liked Taggart’s memo. The top brass, civilian or military, rarely listened to common sense.

“Anything else?” Taggart asked.

“No, sir.”

“When’s he stopping by?” The pink messages reported noise complaints, a missing dog, and gunshots near the Nelson farm.

“Now.”

Taggart glanced at the clock: 9:00 a.m. This amounted to a surprise inspection. He singled out a pink slip. “Who called in the report of gunshots near the Nelson farm?”

“Mrs. Nelson. She thinks the Crawford boys are target shooting in the woods again.”

That section of the county was wooded, and the land was billy-goat steep. “Remind me. Who are the Crawford boys?”

“Zeke and Sammy. They live on the mountain across from the Nelson farm in a small cabin. They’ve lived up there since they were born and know the mountains like the backs of their hands. They like to target shoot and hunt.”

“It’s out of season.”

“They don’t recognize the government. They hunt when they want to. Getting them off the mountain would require an army.”

“Are they a threat?”

Paxton hitched his thumb to his gun belt. “Beyond not paying the fifteen-dollar hunting license fee and growing weed, no. They keep to themselves.”

For now, Taggart had bigger issues than hunting licenses. In the outer office, the door opened and closed. He ran his hand along his tie and straightened his shoulders, straining the starched creases of his uniform. Mayor Briggs appeared in the doorway.

Taggart didn’t extend his hand. “What can I do for you, Mayor Briggs?”

Mayor Briggs glanced at Paxton. “Hey, Jed. Tell your dad I’m looking forward to our tee time tomorrow.”

“Will do, sir.” Paxton moved toward the door. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“No, thank you. Close the door on the way out.”

Paxton nodded, not glancing in Taggart’s direction, and closed the door.

Taggart motioned toward a set of two chairs angled in front of his desk. “Would you like to have a seat?”

They’d attended the same high school, but Taggart had been five years ahead of Briggs. Whereas Briggs took summer vacations during his high school years, Taggart had been changing oil, spark plugs, or transmission fluid in his stepfather’s garage.

“I won’t be here that long.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Your evaluation of the festival has a few of the council members worried.”

“I have real concerns. I want to cancel it until Colton addresses the issues.”

“We’re not shutting it down. Canceling now would be like leaving the bride at the altar. We got to go through with it.”

“I sent a request to the state police for officers to work the music festival. This job is too much for Paxton and me to cover.”

“The promoter has promised to hire private security.”

“I’ve reached out to Mr. Colton twice, and he’s not called me back.”

Briggs cleared his throat. “I’m in an election year, Sheriff Taggart. The locals aren’t fond of state government. And they won’t appreciate seeing state police patrolling their festival. Besides, we can’t afford the extra manpower.”

Frustration scraped under his skin. “The extra patrols are for everyone’s own safety.”

“They won’t see it that way. And like I said, we can’t afford the state guys.”

“I’ve seen the lineup of the bands. They’re not family friendly. Estimates put festival attendance at five hundred people. That’s too much humanity for three men to police. And what if the crowd size surges?”

“We won’t see a surge. We’ll be lucky to get the five hundred. This is a small regional concert with second-rate bands. Mr. Colton has assured me that he’s hired extra security.”

Rafe Colton made a lot of promises, but the follow-ups never happened. Taggart worried this could be a problem. “I need him to call me back and tell me how many extra men he’s hired.”

“Security is his problem. It says so in his contract. You’re there to be the town’s representative.”

Five hundred people was still five hundred potential problems. “If the festival gets out of control, it lands on me. Once night falls, people change. They get drunk, horny, and start thinking they can get away with more. And if you pack them into a small space, the chance of trouble goes up.”

Briggs shook his head. “You keep assuming that there won’t be enough security.”

“Colton has not given me any solid numbers.”

“Let me worry about Colton.”

Taggart’s relationship with Briggs was new and untested. But he had always struggled to keep his opinion to himself. “Colton is cutting corners.”

“You’re in the civilian world now, CJ,” he said. “Time to be more flexible.”

Taggart nodded even as his jaw pulsed.

“I’ve heard your concerns, but I’m telling you, this event is going to be fine.”

Tension sliced up Taggart’s spine, but too many years of respecting the chain of command kept him silent. “Roger that.”

Mayor Briggs’s frown flipped into a quick, easy grin of even white teeth. “Excellent. I appreciate you’re trying to keep on top of this, but it’s going to be fine. The Depot is poised to make a nice fee off their food stand at the festival. And the T-shirt vendor has invested too much in the festival inventory. The economy is still soft, and they’ve all taken a hit in the last few years. This is their chance to get ahead.”

Main Street had several boarded-up businesses. Last year, the pharmacy and the bank had moved thirty miles east to Charlottesville. The few remaining businesses didn’t get the traffic they had five years ago. The local furniture factory had shuttered, and though tourism was a moneymaker, it wasn’t enough. The school budget was getting cut, and whatever forensic supplies Taggart’s department needed remained on a wish list.

The mayor and town council were eager for new business. They offered tax credits like candy, but so far, no bites. And until they filled the abandoned factory, tourism would have to make up the difference. Festival posters peppered the store windows, and folks were excited about its earning potential.

After walking Briggs to the front door, Taggart rubbed the back of his neck as he moved to the break room and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sipped, reminding himself this wasn’t war, and no one was shooting at him. Dawson was a quiet town. A couple of decades had shrunk his past problems with the town down to almost invisible. He hoped they stayed small. “Little problems going forward.”

The muscles along his neck coiled tight and tense. He wanted to ease off the throttle and not worry, not push. He’d lost big while he was in the service because he’d pressed too hard. But old habits died hard. Like it or not, he couldn’t shake the sense that trouble was circling.