different woman came on the line.
She was much less friendly. “Agent Cooper is not available. What is the nature
of your call?”
“We spoke to him about a month ago at the Cape
office. We’d like to deal with him, if at all possible. Tell him that Judge
Randolph McCarter is calling.” Rhetta glanced over to her husband. He jerked
his thumb upward, giving her a “thumbs up” approval. She hoped using her
husband’s title might persuade the clerk she wasn’t a nut case.
“Hold, please.”
Rhetta found herself on hold without any music this
time. After hearing a series of clicks and some tapping sounds, a third woman’s
voice came on.
“I must advise you that this call is being recorded.
Do you wish to continue?”
“Yes, that’s all right. May I please—”
“What is your name?” the woman said, interrupting
Rhetta.
“Rhetta McCarter, Judge McCarter’s wife. I need to
speak with Agent Coo—”
The woman began speaking before Rhetta could finish.
Rhetta was about to let her know what she thought of the FBI representative’s
phone manners, when she realized what the woman had just said.
“Agent Cooper is what?” She felt like a horse had
kicked her in the gut. “No, I don’t want to speak to anyone else. Thank you,”
Rhetta said. “I’m sorry.” She hung up.
Eyes wide, she turned to Woody and Randolph. “Agent
Cooper is dead. He was killed in a hit and run accident two weeks ago.” Rhetta
stared at the phone. I need a cigarette.
“Why didn’t you ask to speak to someone else?”
Randolph pulled up a guest chair to sit next to his wife.
“I guess I should’ve, but I was so shocked at the
news that I just hung up.” Rhetta swiveled around to face Randolph.
“Cooper must’ve died right before Doctor Al-Serafi
wound up in the Diversion Channel,” Woody said. He began pacing and rubbing his
head.
Randolph twisted toward Woody. “Hold on, Woody, what
are you thinking?”
Before Woody had a chance to answer, Rhetta blurted,
“Randolph, maybe the two deaths are connected.” Her stomach fireball had
exploded into a volcano. She fished in a desk drawer and came up with an
economy-sized bottle of chewable antacid tablets. She popped several into her
mouth.
“Sweetheart,” Randolph said, eyeing the bottle. “I
think we’re all jumping to conclusions.”
“I think Randolph’s right.” Woody rubbed his head.
“After all, how could the two deaths possibly be related?”
Woody’s head rubbing belied his protestations. Woody
was worried, too.
Rhetta attempted to keep everybody calm. “Maybe
we’re jumping to conclusions about all of this.”
Turning to her husband, Rhetta said, “What do you make
of that schematic? Why would that drawing be in Al-Serafi’s car?”
Randolph poured out two antacids tablets for
himself, popped them into his mouth, and began chewing. “I don’t know the
answer to that, but I have an idea. I’ll ask Billy Dan Kercheval about it. I’ll
see if he can identify the schematic.”
William Daniel Kercheval, Billy Dan to everyone who
knew him, was the newly retired General Manager of the maintenance division of
Inland Electric Co-operative. He’d been a longtime friend of Randolph’s. They’d
gone to high school together. Never remarrying after a divorce many years
earlier, Billy Dan had retired to a secluded wooded property west of Marble
Hill, about thirty miles from Cape Girardeau.
Randolph said, “If Billy Dan confirms this is something
unusual, we’ll call the FBI again. We may have something concrete on our
terrorist theory.”
Woody nodded slowly. Returning to the safe, he
withdrew both the enlarged copy and the web picture he’d printed, leaving the
original schematic tucked away. He folded the papers deftly into a manila
envelope, which he handed to Randolph. He returned to his desk and quickly
pulled up the Missouri State Highway Patrol crash website.
He quickly located the information. “The highway
patrol reported
She was much less friendly. “Agent Cooper is not available. What is the nature
of your call?”
“We spoke to him about a month ago at the Cape
office. We’d like to deal with him, if at all possible. Tell him that Judge
Randolph McCarter is calling.” Rhetta glanced over to her husband. He jerked
his thumb upward, giving her a “thumbs up” approval. She hoped using her
husband’s title might persuade the clerk she wasn’t a nut case.
“Hold, please.”
Rhetta found herself on hold without any music this
time. After hearing a series of clicks and some tapping sounds, a third woman’s
voice came on.
“I must advise you that this call is being recorded.
Do you wish to continue?”
“Yes, that’s all right. May I please—”
“What is your name?” the woman said, interrupting
Rhetta.
“Rhetta McCarter, Judge McCarter’s wife. I need to
speak with Agent Coo—”
The woman began speaking before Rhetta could finish.
Rhetta was about to let her know what she thought of the FBI representative’s
phone manners, when she realized what the woman had just said.
“Agent Cooper is what?” She felt like a horse had
kicked her in the gut. “No, I don’t want to speak to anyone else. Thank you,”
Rhetta said. “I’m sorry.” She hung up.
Eyes wide, she turned to Woody and Randolph. “Agent
Cooper is dead. He was killed in a hit and run accident two weeks ago.” Rhetta
stared at the phone. I need a cigarette.
“Why didn’t you ask to speak to someone else?”
Randolph pulled up a guest chair to sit next to his wife.
“I guess I should’ve, but I was so shocked at the
news that I just hung up.” Rhetta swiveled around to face Randolph.
“Cooper must’ve died right before Doctor Al-Serafi
wound up in the Diversion Channel,” Woody said. He began pacing and rubbing his
head.
Randolph twisted toward Woody. “Hold on, Woody, what
are you thinking?”
Before Woody had a chance to answer, Rhetta blurted,
“Randolph, maybe the two deaths are connected.” Her stomach fireball had
exploded into a volcano. She fished in a desk drawer and came up with an
economy-sized bottle of chewable antacid tablets. She popped several into her
mouth.
“Sweetheart,” Randolph said, eyeing the bottle. “I
think we’re all jumping to conclusions.”
“I think Randolph’s right.” Woody rubbed his head.
“After all, how could the two deaths possibly be related?”
Woody’s head rubbing belied his protestations. Woody
was worried, too.
Rhetta attempted to keep everybody calm. “Maybe
we’re jumping to conclusions about all of this.”
Turning to her husband, Rhetta said, “What do you make
of that schematic? Why would that drawing be in Al-Serafi’s car?”
Randolph poured out two antacids tablets for
himself, popped them into his mouth, and began chewing. “I don’t know the
answer to that, but I have an idea. I’ll ask Billy Dan Kercheval about it. I’ll
see if he can identify the schematic.”
William Daniel Kercheval, Billy Dan to everyone who
knew him, was the newly retired General Manager of the maintenance division of
Inland Electric Co-operative. He’d been a longtime friend of Randolph’s. They’d
gone to high school together. Never remarrying after a divorce many years
earlier, Billy Dan had retired to a secluded wooded property west of Marble
Hill, about thirty miles from Cape Girardeau.
Randolph said, “If Billy Dan confirms this is something
unusual, we’ll call the FBI again. We may have something concrete on our
terrorist theory.”
Woody nodded slowly. Returning to the safe, he
withdrew both the enlarged copy and the web picture he’d printed, leaving the
original schematic tucked away. He folded the papers deftly into a manila
envelope, which he handed to Randolph. He returned to his desk and quickly
pulled up the Missouri State Highway Patrol crash website.
He quickly located the information. “The highway
patrol reported
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