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The sports bar was less than a mile from Heckler & Koch U.S., where some of these men and women worked. Other than the thriving high-tech business community, Heckler & Koch (pronounced “coke”) was one of the largest employers in town, just behind Abbott Laboratories and Consolidated Diesel. I wondered if the gun company might have some connection to the murders. Probably not, but maybe.
I struck up a conversation with a plant supervisor from H&K at the bar. We talked about the plight of the Carolina Panthers, and then I worked in the subject of the gun manufacturer. He was positive about his company, which he referred to as “like a family” and “definitely one of the best places to work in North Carolina, which is a good state to work in.” Then we talked about guns, the MP5 submachine gun in particular. He told me the MP5 was used by the Navy SEALs and elite SWAT teams, but it had also found its way into inner-city gangs. I already knew that about the MP5.
I mentioned Starkey, Harris, and Griffin, casually.
“I’m surprised Tom and Brownie aren’t here already. They usually stop in on a Friday. How do you know those boys?” he asked, but didn’t seem surprised that I did.
“We served together long time ago,” said Sampson. “Back in ’sixty-nine and ’seventy.”
The supervisor nodded. “You Rangers too?” he asked.
“No, just regular army,” said Sampson. “Just foot soldiers.”
We talked to some other H&K employees, and they spoke positively about the company. The guys we talked to knew Starkey, Harris, and Griffin, and everybody knew they’d been Rangers. I got the impression that the three men were popular and might even be local heroes.
About quarter past seven, Sampson leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “Front door. Look who just blew in,” he said. “Three business suits. Don’t much look like killers.”
I turned slowly and looked. No, they didn’t look like killers.
“But that’s what they are,” I said to Sampson. “Army assassins who look like the nicest guys in the bar, maybe in all of North Carolina.”
We watched the three of them for the rest of the night — just watched the trio of hit men.
Chapter 80
SAMPSON AND I were staying out at a Holiday Inn near the Interstate. We were up the next morning by six.
We had a potentially heart-stopping but rather tasty breakfast at a nearby Denny’s (omelettes and “home fries covered and smothered”). Then we planned out our big day. We’d learned the night before that Heckler & Koch had a big family-style picnic that day. We were planning to crash it. Cause a little trouble if we could.
After breakfast, we took a spin past the houses of the three murder suspects. A slick group we liked called Maze was playing from the CD. Nice contrast to the folksiness of Rocky Mount. City meets country.
The killers’ houses were in upscale developments called Knob Hill, Falling River Walk, and Greystone. It looked as if a lot of young professionals with families lived there. The New South. Quiet, tasteful, civilized as hell.
“They know how to blend in,” Sampson said as we drove by Warren Griffin’s two-and-a-half-story Colonial. “Our three killer boys.”
“Good at what they do,” I said. “Never been caught. I really want to have a chat with them.”
About eight, we went back to the Holiday Inn to get ready for the picnic and whatever else might happen today. It was hard to believe that the three killers fit so well into Rocky Mount. It made me wonder about pretty, innocent-looking small towns and what might be lurking behind their facades. Maybe nothing, maybe a whole lot of everything.
Sampson and I were originally from North Carolina, but we hadn’t spent that much time here as adults, and unfortunately, much of it had been working on a couple of celebrated murder cases. The gun-company picnic was scheduled to start at eleven, and we figured we would show up about one, when the crowd was large. We knew from the night before that just about everybody from H&K, from the mailroom to the stockroom to the corporate suite, would be on hand for the big day.
That included Starkey, Harris, Griffin — and their families.
And, of course, Sampson and me.
It was time for a little payback.
Chapter 81
IT WAS A hot, humid day and even the cooks at the company picnic were checking the grill infrequently. They much preferred to stay in the shade and sip cold Dr Pepper soft drinks in their BBQ FROM HEAVEN aprons. Everybody seemed to be taking it easy, having a good time on a pretty Saturday. Another cat’s-eye marble bites the dust.
Sampson and I sat under an ancient, leafy oak tree and listened to the symphony of local birds. We drank iced tea from Lucite cups that looked like real glass. We wore H&K RULES T-shirts and looked as if we belonged, and always had.
The smell of ribs was strong in the air. Actually, the smoke from the grills was probably keeping the bugs from becoming an immediate problem.
“They sure know how to cook those ribs,” Sampson said.
That they did, and so did I. Ribs, to cook properly, need indirect heat, and the fires had been built with two piles of charcoal — one in front, one in the back, none in the middle w
