Carved in Bone - Jefferson Bass [62]
“It’s been awhile since I worked with an interagency task force,” I said. “Last time was probably fifteen years ago, with Agent Billings here—the Fat Sam kidnapping and murder case.” Billings smiled at the memory of the bumbling counterfeiter, who’d been bilked by a slicker counterfeiter and had turned ineptly vengeful.
Price frowned, shook her head slightly, and held up a finger. “This is not a task force, Dr. Brockton, simply an informal joint investigation. Depending on what we turn up, we could ratchet this up to a task force, but that would require a lot more predication—evidence of wrongdoing—and a lot more paperwork. For now, we’re just trying to get a handle on what’s going on up in Cooke County.”
Price recapped some relevant Cooke County history. Back in the early 1980s, a joint FBI–TBI task force—the full-fledged version—spent two years investigating corruption in Tennessee sheriff’s departments. They found a lot of it: more than one-quarter of the state’s sheriffs were indicted and sent to prison. It had been an embarrassing time for Tennessee’s sheriffs’ departments in general, and for Cooke County’s in particular: the sheriff at the time had been caught running both a brothel and a cocaine-trafficking ring (complete with its own private airstrip). He ended up getting a fifteen-year sentence in federal prison.
Price finished her history lecture. “That was twenty years ago—a long time between housecleanings. Not surprisingly, the dirt seems to be building up again.”
“I’m shocked, shocked,” I said with mock indignation.
She ignored the joke. “We’ve been monitoring some things up in Cooke County that seem to point to an increase in a whole host of illegal activities,” she said. “As you may know, the Marijuana Eradication Task Force and the Tennessee Highway Patrol work together on surveillance flights to detect pot cultivation. There seems to be a substantial increase in cultivation in Cooke County over the past two years, an increase that’s not been matched in any other counties in the state. We have additional information suggesting a rise in harder drug trafficking, gambling, and prostitution.”
“Sounds like one-stop shopping for all your vice needs,” I said. The familiar-looking TBI agent grinned slightly, and suddenly I realized why he looked familiar. I’d never met him before, but I’d seen him before: twenty-four hours earlier, at the cockfight in Cooke County. What had Waylon called him? Rooster, that was it. I recalled my conversation with Art about the perils of being unable to tell the good guys from the bad guys. My palms began to sweat and my mouth went dry as cotton.
Price was still talking; I willed myself to concentrate on her words, though I was still staring at Rankin. “When Agent Morgan said you’d called him to express concerns about the conduct of the sheriff’s department in the homicide case you’re working, it occurred to us that you might be able to shed some indirect light on whether there’s official protection or involvement in any of these various criminal enterprises.”
Rankin’s eyes were locked on me like laser beams. I opened my mouth to speak, but seemed unable to get any words out. My brain was reeling with possibilities. What if the official corruption wasn’t limited to the sheriff’s department? What if it extended into the TBI—indeed, even into this very task force? Clearly I was in way over my head. “I…I…” I licked my parched lips with a thick, pasty-feeling tongue.
Rankin cocked his head. “Doc, you look a little dry in the mouth there. Can I get you some water?” I nodded my head nervously. “Or maybe you’d prefer a little dab of this?” He slid something that looked like a hockey puck across the oak table toward me. I