by Crider, Bill
“Crime scene?“
“That’s right.“ Napier directed the beam of his flashlight through the doorway and into the deserted building. “See that?“
“See what?“ Burns said. The floor was littered with trash: old papers, rat-chewed boxes, an empty plastic Coke bottle or two. “I see a lot of stuff.“
“That,“ Napier said. “Right there.“
Burns saw it then. Next to one of the Coke bottles. A toy soldier. It appeared to be wearing some kind of British uniform, but Burns couldn’t be sure. Maybe he should make a visit to a good optometrist.
“All right,“ he said. “I see it.“
“I’m leaving it there for the evidence team, but I’m sure it’s another one from Gwen’s collection.“
Burns was equally convinced. It wasn’t likely that there were a whole lot of toy soldiers lying around Pecan City.
“The part about a soldier being by Hart’s body wasn’t in the paper,“ Burns said.
“That’s right.“
“So not just everybody knows about it.“
“Right again. You’re on a roll, Burns.“
“You told me about it, though. Who else knows?“
“Nobody except the people on the case, Gwen, and the killer.“
“It’s nice to be trusted.“
“Don’t get too comfortable with the idea.“
Burns said he wouldn’t. He looked at the soldier again.
“How did it get there?“ he asked.
“Think about it, Burns. I know you’re not a trained crime fighter like me, but since people keep on calling you when there’s trouble, you should at least make an effort.“
“Somebody dropped it,“ Burns said.
“Not bad. Now why would anyone drop a toy soldier in a place like this?“
“He was playing war and his mama called him home?“
“Always being a smart-ass, aren’t you, Burns. As police chief, I could shoot you for stuff like that. No jury in the world would convict me.“
He was probably right. Burns said, “OK, let’s say the guy who shot at Mal was hiding right here. He was planning to kill Mal and leave the toy soldier on the body. But when he didn’t kill anybody, he panicked and left in a hurry. He didn’t even notice he’d dropped the soldier.“
“Not bad, Burns. Next thing I know, you’ll figure out why that ape closed the window.“
“I could be wrong, you know.“
“Sure you could. Maybe you are. But it makes sense to me.“
Which meant he’d been thinking the same thing, Burns thought. “Do you think there are any fingerprints on it?“
“Look at it, Burns. It’s too small for fingerprints. Probably too small for even a partial. It would be nice if the guy had been handling one of those plastic bottles, but I’d guess the chances of that were somewhere between slim and none.“
Burns guessed the same thing. “But if he wasn’t wearing gloves, he might have left prints in there somewhere.“
“It’s possible, but there weren’t any prints at the first scene. Even if we find prints, if they aren’t on file, they won’t help us any until we catch the killer.“
“By we, you mean you and the police force, right?“
“You’re a card, Burns. I’ll bet you crack the students up every day. You should get your own TV show.“
“So you mean me and you.“
“And the force.“
“We need to talk.“
Napier looked around them at the night and the old pharmacy building. He looked up at the cloudy sky. Then he said, “I thought that’s what we were doing.“
“There’s talk, and then there’s talk. For one thing, I don’t know about the first scene.“
“Don’t you read the newspaper? I thought you English teachers read all the time.“
Burns had seen the account of Hart’s murder. In the fashion typical of the offend-no-one policies of the Pecan City paper, it had said as little as possible, and in fact it would have been hard to determine from reading it that Hart had been murdered. It could just as well have been that he had suffered a fatal heart attack while baking an apple pie.
“I read it,“ Burns said. “Let’s see. What were you telling me about how it’s the details that matter?“
Napier slapped his neck, then looked at his hand. “Isn’t it too early for mosquitoes?“
“Yes, it is. Which is why you weren’t really being attacked by one. You’re just changing the subject.“
“Okay, maybe you have more detective skills than I thought. I’ll admit that the paper was a little skimpy on details.“
“So are you going to fill me in?“
“Not standing here with these mosquitoes. Let’s go to my house.“
Burns had visited Napier’s place before, but he wasn’t eager to return. You never knew when the Boss might want to try out his bullwhip on you.
“You have anything to drink?“ Burns asked.
“Pepsi One. Just one calorie.“
“Just what I need,“ Burns said. “Let’s go.“
Chapter Fifteen
For years Burns had driven a 1967 Plymouth. He had loved its wide bench seat in the front, with room for four passengers to sit in comfort. It was a four-door hardtop, and he had liked the look, if not the safety, of having no centerpost. He hadn’t much liked the fourteen miles per gallon of gas that the car got, however, and so during the most recent rise in gas prices he had sold the car to someone who had been looking for one like it for many years, apparently because his parents had owned one like it when the man had been in high school.
“You can’t believe how much room there was in that back seat for making out,“ the man had told Burns. “It wasn’t the sportiest car around. In fact, it was pretty clunky looking. But you couldn’t beat it for a date car.“
Burns didn’t ask about the man’s no doubt wonderful memories of what had transpired in the back seat of the well-remembered Plymouth. He just jacked up the price of his own car a little more, and in the end he had gotten more for it than he had ever hoped to receive. Then he had gone out and bought himself a Toyota Camry.
It wouldn’t hold nearly as many people, but then Burns didn’t plan to have eight people in the car any time soon. Besides, he could park the Camry in about one-third the space that the Plymouth had required.
There wasn’t much room in the Toyota’s back seat for making out, but Burns felt he was too old for making out in the back seat. He preferred a less awkward setting these days, not that he got that much opportunity to make out.
At any rate, he quite enjoyed the Camry, which got excellent gas mileage and even had a CD player, a big improvement over the Plymouth’s AM radio.
The Plymouth had been dark green with a black top, while the Camry was a sort of a nondescript sandy color, but that didn’t matter to Burns, who tooled along the street to Napier’s house as he listened to Warren Zevon’s Excitable Boy CD. He sang along on “Lawyers, Guns, and Money,“ identifying strongly with the character in the song who needed the items listed in the title because “the shit had hit the fan.“ That seemed to Burns to sum up his own situation admirably. He was going to miss old Warren and his insights into life.
Boss Napier lived in a perfectly ordinary house on a perfectly ordinary street. Burns parked the Camry at the curb and went up to the porch. He looked for the doorbell, but Napier was waiting for him and opened the door before Burns had a chance to ring.
“Come on in,“ Napier said, and Burns did. He followed Napier into the kitchen where he saw that there was a playset on the table.
“What’s that?“ he asked.
Napier surveyed the small figures with a collector’s pride. “It’s a David and Goliath playset. Just came today, from some Christian outfit called Rainfall. Not bad, either. Twenty-four Israelites and twenty-four Philistines. That’s David there, a two-incher. And that big four-inch guy is Goliath.“
“Great,“ Burns said. What else could he say?
Besides the f
igures Napier had named, there were a couple of tents, some rocks, a few trees, and some animals. The trees were stunted and the animals looked silly (the sheep were as big as the single lion), but Burns supposed he’d see it differently if he were afflicted with the same mania that Napier was.
“Got ’em all for about fifteen bucks,“ Napier said. “I’ll put them in the room where I keep the other playsets after I mess with them a little longer.“
“Don’t move them on my account. I think the biblical setting might be good for us. We need to talk about bearing false witness.“
Napier stiffened. “Is that a crack? Because if that’s a crack, I’m not going to offer you anything to drink.“
“It’s not a crack,“ Burns said. “It’s just that I’m tired of being jerked around.“
“Nobody’s jerking you around.“
“You are, and Dean Partridge is. Both of you plotted to get me involved in this mess from the beginning, but neither one of you will admit it. I’m not going to stay here one minute longer if you don’t come clean.“
“You want a Pepsi One?“
“I’m not drinking a thing until you tell me the truth.“
“Just sit down and calm down. Then we’ll talk.“
Burns sat down. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. Ordinarily he’d never challenge Boss Napier. Maybe it was the proximity to the David and Goliath figures. Even a David got lucky every now and then.
“I’ll take a glass of water,“ Burns said.
“I don’t have any of that fancy stuff.“
Burns had a strong sense of deja vu. “You and Dr. Partridge are a lot alike, you know that?“
Napier looked at him through slitted eyes. “Is that another crack?“
Burns sighed. “No, it’s not a crack. It’s just an idle comment. How about that water?“
Napier had an industrial-sized stainless steel refrigerator that looked brand new. There was a water spigot in the door, along with an ice dispenser.
“Pretty swanky,“ Burns said as Napier filled a glass with water.
“The old one cratered on me, so I just went the whole hog.“ Napier set the water on the table. “You sure you don’t want a Pepsi?“
“I’m sure,“ Burns said, and took a sip of his water.
Napier got a can of Pepsi One from a can dispenser inside the refrigerator. He didn’t bother to get a glass. He popped the tab and drank straight from the can.
“So,“ Burns said. “Time for the truth-telling?“
Napier set his can on the table. He picked up one of the Israelites, or maybe it was one of the Philistines, from the playset and rolled it around between his thumb and forefinger. Then he put it back down on the table.
“Well?“ Burns said.
“All right, I admit it,“ Napier said, looking at the figures and not at Burns. “I told Gwen to get you involved if she wanted to. She didn’t want me to know she’d gone to you about the soldiers at first, but then she told me about it. And it made sense. You’ve been a little helpful now and then.“
Burns thought it was nice of Napier to admit it, and he wished he had it on tape.
“So why make such a big show of telling me to keep my nose out of things?“
“Because I know you, and I knew that’s what you’d expect me to say. I also knew it wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. You just can’t keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you, can you, Burns? It’s a constitutional weakness, and you couldn’t change if you wanted to, which you don’t.“
“Well, I do have a tendency to get interested in things.“
“Yeah. Right. And you get in trouble, too, don’t you.“
Burns sat up a little straighter in his chair. “That’s never been my intention.“
“Don’t start with the intentions. We all know about that road where they’re used for paving stones.“
“Okay, forget it. Let’s just get down to business. Tell me how Matthew Hart was killed.“
Napier took a drink of Pepsi, then said, “He was shot.“
“That part, I know. You told me earlier. When, where, how? Those are the details I’m lacking.“
“First let me ask you about your buddy Tomlin.“
“What for?“
“Because I want to. Does he walk that dog of his every night?“
“Every night after the news,“ Burns said. “He told me that himself.“
“And that’s where he made his mistake. He fell into a routine. Potential murder victims should never fall into a routine.“
“I sort of get the feeling that Mal didn’t regard himself as a potential murder victim.“
“Yeah. Well, a man can’t be too careful.“
“What’s that supposed to mean?“
“It means that Matthew Hart had a routine, too. Every morning he got up at seven o’clock, right on the dot, and as soon as he’d shaved and brushed his teeth, he went out to his driveway and brought in the newspaper. Between twenty and thirty minutes after he got up. Every single day. And that’s what he was doing wrong. He got shot in his driveway when he went for the paper.“
“So somebody had been watching him.“
“And somebody had been watching your pal Tomlin, too.“
“There was a good hiding place where Mal walked the dog,“ Burns pointed out. “What about near Hart’s house?“
“Hart lives out in the Heights,“ Napier said.
The Heights was an older part of Pecan City, named because it was a little higher in elevation than the rest of the town. Recently a builder had started a new addition to the area, and some of the homes had nothing across the street from them except some uncleared woods.
“Let me guess,“ Burns said. “Hart bought one of the new houses out there.“
“That’s right. Hadn’t been in it for more than a month, but his routine had been the same ever since he quit teaching, according to his wife. After he read the paper, he’d get dressed and go to work. But this time somebody just hid out in the trees across the street and nailed him as he bent over to pick up the paper. Bullet went right into the top of his head.“
Burns didn’t like to think about what kind of mess that might have made, but Napier told him anyway.
“He was shot with a .22. If we find a slug at that old hospital, I’d bet it’ll be a .22 as well. A rifle of that caliber doesn’t make much noise at all, which is one of its good points if you’re shooting in a residential area. You have to be a pretty good shot to kill somebody with one, but a head shot generally works. A slug that size, it just sort of bounces around inside the skull and scrambles the brain like an egg.“
“Thanks for sharing that,“ Burns said.
Napier shrugged. “You wanted details. Now you have some.“
“Right. So now I want to know how the toy soldier got there with Hart.“
“Whoever shot him probably threw it across the street. It was lying about five feet from the body, a little scratched up from hitting the concrete.“
“Which of course leads us to the really important question. What do the soldiers have to do with all of this?“
Napier took another swallow of Pepsi, tilting the can back to get most of what remained. He set the can on the table, and Burns looked at him quizzically.
“Well?“ Burns said.
“Damned if I know,“ Napier told him.
Chapter Sixteen
Napier put his Pepsi can in a recycling bin by his new refrigerator and asked if Burns wanted any more water. Burns didn’t, so Napier took his glass and set it in the sink.
“Anyway,“ Napier said when he was seated at the table again, “the question about the soldier isn’t the only important one we need to ask.“
“All right,“ Burns said. “I’ll bite. What’s another one?“
“Another one is, what’s the connection between Tomlin and Hart and the soldiers. Who’d want to kill them and leave a soldier with the bodies?
Burns resisted the strong temptation to say that
among was the proper word rather than between. No need to irritate Napier unnecessarily.
Burns had wondered about the connection, too, and he and Dean Partridge had talked about that point, but they had come to no conclusions.
Now that a soldier had turned up near where someone had tried to shoot Mal Tomlin, it seemed clear to Burns that the soldiers hadn’t been taken because of their intrinsic value. Whoever took them wanted to leave them near the bodies of his victims. That didn’t mean that the people who had tried to buy the soldiers from Dean Partridge were off the hook, however. They were all well aware of the soldiers’ existence and would have known where to find them, no matter what use they had for them.
“We live in a funny world, Burns,“ Napier said. “You know that?“
“I’m not laughing,“ Burns said.
“I didn’t mean funny like that. I was talking about irony. Being an English teacher, you should know all about irony.“
“I don’t see any irony in people being killed.“
“You just aren’t looking at the big picture. If you think about some sniper killing people, you don’t think about a place like Pecan City. You think about those two nut-jobs up in the D.C. area.“
“I see what you mean. We’re supposed to be living in a safe small-town environment.“
“Yeah. It’s just like the Homeland Security people keep telling us. Nobody is safe anywhere, not any more.“
“I don’t think we’re in much danger of terrorist activity around here,“ Burns said. “I just can’t see them targeting Pecan City.“
“No, not terrorists. But there are nut-jobs everywhere.“
“And you think that’s what we have here? Some deranged veteran of the war with Iraq, maybe, has come home to keep on killing, leaving the toy soldiers as a clue?“
“I don’t much believe in those deranged veteran stories,“ Napier said. “But there’s a connection somewhere. Not just between Tomlin and Hart, but between both of them and the soldiers.“
“Tomlin isn’t a veteran of any war. What about Hart? Did you check?“
Napier gave him a disgusted look. “I know I don’t sit around reading The Sound and the Fury, but I know how to do my job. Of course I checked. Hart never fought in a war, and he wasn’t even a member of the National Guard. Didn’t take R.O.T.C. in college, either.“