Chapter 1

The first thing you should ask is how the hell I got here. Here being a nine hundred and fifty square foot house, more or less. Well I bought it. To be honest I own most of it, the bank still has a mortgage on it for six more months. Then it will be mine free and clear. I know it’s not much to look at now, but I do have plans for it.

Over the last five years I have done all the major repairs. You know things like a new roof. I had all the water lines replaced, the electrical service updated, and a complete insulation job done. Since the house is located in Grenada Ms, the full insulation job might have been a bit of overkill. It was still a good investment, I thought.

Lets not forget having ten storm windows installed on the outside of the house. The worst thing was I had to pay someone else to do all the work. I probably should tell you why I couldn’t do it myself. That is part of how the hell I ended up here.

First I need to explain about my association with the Mississippi Department of Public Safety. When I was involved in an ‘accidental shooting’, I had been a civilian employee for twenty two years. It was in the middle of the night, of course, when I took a bullet in the hip. Okay I was shot in the ass to be exact. Dead through the glutenous maxi-mas or whatever they call it. The nine millimeter bullet did a job on me. It shattered my hip joint. I got a full metal replacement hip joint, but that’s a story for another day.

I spent a year in rehab before they allowed back at work. Even then I had to sign a waiver, since I only have about sixty percent mobility in my left hip. Since I’m a civilian photographer, not a cop, I’m not a danger to anyone. The waiver says I won’t sue the department, if I fall and break something else.

My plan was to make it to my thirty year anniversary and get the full pension. The state police also insisted I work from a less active location. I went from Jackson to Grenada. The number of CID cases was less than half those in Jackson. I was also responsible for collecting evidence and keeping the records of it. It was a hard way to make the last seven years pass, but I was determined.

So when I started my last seven years, I was determined to set myself up for the end of my career. I bought a little house just outside of Grenada. It left me with a four minute drive to the CID office. I bought it cheap, because it was a dump. The first thing that the house hit me with was an active termite infestation. I took bids and got three within two hundred dollars of each other. The price for the treatment was seven hundred dollars cash. The guy was a licensed pest control expert, or so he said. Before he finished spraying, I was sick of the house.

I had been in the town of Grenada a couple of months when I met Deacon Burke. It happened like this.

“Lester honey I got someone you need to meet,” she informed me.

“Oh who would that be?” I asked.

“The tall straight man at the corner table. You asked me about a handy man last time you was in, well the Deacon knows everybody in town.” Janice my waitress suggested.

“Well, you make the introduction, and I’ll go along with it,” I suggested.

“Mr. Burke this here is Lester Martin, he works for the State Police,” she said.

I shook his hand and suggested, “Janice said you knew everyone in town.”

“Well I know a few. You looking for someone in particular?” he asked.