I sat down beside her on the table. “By whom?”
“The managing editor. Said we didn’t want to embarrass the family.”
I didn’t understand. “Embarrass them how?”
She shrugged. “The editor hinted around that maybe McCallen was up to something he shouldn’t have been up to, and there wasn’t any need to embarrass the family anymore.”
“They thought McCallen was a dirty cop?”
She looked at me and nodded. “Apparently.”
“But you didn’t believe them?”
She took a deep breath, then went back to picking at the leaves. “No. I believe there was a dirty cop involved but I don’t think it was McCallen.”
“Is that why there was very limited information in the article you wrote?”
She tossed her head back and laughed. “Oh my God, it was what—two paragraphs? I couldn’t get information from the sheriff’s department, I couldn’t get information from the hospital. No one would talk.”
“What about the family?”
She shrugged again. “I think the son wanted to talk, but, like everyone else, he was pretty tight-lipped. By the time McCallen was well enough to talk himself, the editor had told me to let it go.”
“What about local television? Did any of the local news stations cover it?”
She shook her head. “No more than the paper. When it happened, it was a huge story, but within hours the information pipeline didn’t just shut down, it was completely sealed off. In this business, when you can’t get the information you need, you move on.”
“But was there never any industry talk about the lack of information? The media usually thrives on conspiracy theories. Why didn’t they run with this one?”
She sighed heavily. “I’ve often thought about that. Why didn’t one of the more experienced reporters keep digging and digging? Why didn’t they pull a Woodward and Bernstein and expose the corruption for what it was?”
“Why didn’t you?”
She chuckled. “Sure, I had my eyes set on a Pulitzer, but I had rent to pay, too. I needed the job.”
We sat there for a moment, neither of us saying anything. Finally, I asked, “Did they ever make an arrest?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I moved on and never heard anything else about it. But I’d be interested to know if they did.”
“What do you know about McCallen running for sheriff?” I asked.
Again, she shrugged. “I do know there was some talk before he filed, but it was mostly campaign talk. He couldn’t really say too much bad about Gaylord Denny, considering he still worked for the man.”
* * *
I made it back to Wink in time to grab a shower before heading over to the McCallens. I pulled on a clean pair of jeans and fresh T-shirt and was stepping into my sandals when Rhonda knocked on the open bedroom door. “You decent?”
“I’ve never been decent. But I am dressed.”
She laughed, then stepped in and leaned against the door. She had the phone in her hand but it wasn’t on. “There was a number on the caller ID. I think they might have been calling for you.” Her jaw set as anger flared in her eyes. “Claire Kinley. Really, Gypsy?”
“I ran into her at Dunbar’s,” I explained. “She said something about maybe meeting for lunch one day. No big deal.” I was seventeen all over again, lying to my mother about where I’d been, who I’d been with, reeking of sex and heartache. My heart was racing as fast as the van had been moving along Highway 302.
In my family’s eyes, the Kinleys and Morans might as well have been called the Hatfields and McCoys. I never understood my mother’s dislike for the Kinleys or anything to do with the K-Bar Ranch. And I sure didn’t understand why the disdain carried over to Rhonda.
Rhonda looked at the phone, then pressed a button. “Oh, oops. I’m sorry. I erased the number.”
I didn’t tell her I had it stored in my cell. I’d let her go on believing she was doing her part in keeping me and Claire Kinley apart. Again.
Outside, I helped Gram into the backseat of Rhonda’s SUV. Rhonda was forcing her to go; she didn’t trust her at home by herself. Something about the cable company’s movies on demand and racking up an enormous cable bill.
Gram grumbled about the unfairness of getting old the entire ten minutes it took us to get to the McCallens’.
As Rhonda pulled into the driveway, she asked, “So what did you find out about Burke’s accident?” Apparently she was over her little tiff about Claire.
“Not much more than we talked about. There was very little news on the subject.”
“You know, I never really thought about it until you mentioned it. And you were right. For a story that big, it sure didn’t get the news coverage you would have expected.”
The McCallens’ house was small, vinyl-sided, and set off the road, partially hidden behind overgrown mesquite trees. A wooden handicap ramp led to the front stoop. Rhonda parked behind the pickup truck Tatum had driven earlier. A black-and-white border collie bounded around from the back of the house, barking and snapping at the stationary wheels of Rhonda’s SUV. She climbed out then tried to stroke the dog’s head. “Jasper, calm down, boy.”
The dog turned circles around her, lapping up the attention.
Tatum came to the front door and called the dog off. “I’m glad y’all came. Supper’s almost ready.” He offered me his hand. I’d never known a twelve-year-old to offer such a greeting without being prompted by a stern-faced adult.
I shook his hand, then Rhonda, Gram, and I followed him into the house. It was an older house with faded hardwood floors and years-old furniture strategically placed for wheelchair access. Burke wheeled himself from the kitchen to the living room, stopping at the doorway. Rhonda went to him and wrapped him in a tight hug, then playfully picked at his long hair. “Time for another haircut, old man.”
“I think I’m going to let it grow. Pull it back in one of those ponytails.”
They laughed together easily, then Burke turned to me. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Moran.”
“Please, call me Gypsy.”
“Well, Gypsy … I’m glad you decided to come.”
Tatum excused himself, then scooted around the wheelchair and disappeared into the kitchen. The smell of ribs and roasted corn wafted through the house and I remembered I hadn’t eaten all day. My bagged lunch had ended up splattered in the parking lot of Dunbar’s. My ten-minute encounter with Claire had already caused problems, extreme hunger being only one of them.
“Would you like a beer?” Burke asked.
“Sure.”
“I’ll get it,” Rhonda said. “I’ll see if Tatum needs any help. Gram, why don’t you come help us in the kitchen?”
Rhonda and Gram in the kitchen “helping.” I wondered if I should warn Tatum neither could boil water.
Burke rolled himself into the living room and motioned me to the sofa. “Have a seat.”
Rhonda came back in and handed both of us a beer. The bottle was cold, almost frosty, and I relished that first sip. As Rhonda disappeared back into the kitchen, I made myself comfortable on the sofa.
“Did you think anymore about my offer?” Burke asked.
So much for comfort and small talk. I leaned forward and spoke quietly, not sure how much Burke wanted Tatum to know. “Well, I do have a couple questions about your injury. You didn’t seem real anxious to talk about it at the diner, and I do understand why. Tell me about Gaylord Denny and why you were going to run against him in the election.”
He had started to take a sip of the beer but held the bottle at his mouth, surprise evident in his eyes. After a moment, he took a sip, swallowed hard, then nodded. “You’ve been doing a little homework, haven’t you?”
“Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Not if you’re worth your fee.” He winked, then settled his weight in the chair. I grinned and offered the bottle in a mock toast.
“So why were you running against him?�
�
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Why does any candidate decide to run? I thought I could do a better job.”
I wasn’t buying it. I glanced toward the kitchen, then leaned closer to Burke. “Cut the bullshit, Burke. If you want me to help you, you’ve got to help me. How could you have done a better job? What was it with Denny’s administration you didn’t like? Corruption? Favoritism? Were you overlooked for a promotion? Candidates run for office because they want something changed. What was it you wanted changed?”
He shifted his weight, then glanced over his shoulder toward the kitchen. “Look, whatever happened to me, let it go. We’re hiring you to look into Ryce’s death, not my injury.”
I shook my head. “I don’t work that way. I want to know what I’m dealing with up front. If Denny’s a dirty cop, I want to know it. If you were a dirty cop, I want to know it. Your grandson doesn’t have to know it, but I do.”
His eyes narrowed with disgust. “You’re calling me a dirty cop? You’re barking up the wrong tree, boy.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
He rubbed his chin hard, then chugged half his beer in one shot. After a long moment, he finally spoke in a quiet, controlled voice. “I served under Gaylord Denny for twelve years. In the beginning he was a good sheriff. But something happened in his last term … I don’t know what … but there was a gradual change. People in the county started fearing deputies rather than looking at them as someone who could help them.
“Some of us questioned him on a couple of his decisions, some questionable calls. The ones that questioned him left for one reason or another, some of them quit, some were fired. I had too many years in to just walk away. Got bucked back down to patrol. Everywhere I went in the county, people were talking. They’d heard Denny was doing this or that and they wanted him out.”
“Did anyone have any proof of wrongdoing?”
Burke smiled. It was a sad smile. “Proof? Nothing that would hold up in court. Nothing that could even bring an indictment. I mean, really, how are you going to indict the sheriff?”
“There’s ways. It’s been done before. It can be done again.”
“Not without proof. And anyone who had proof either disappeared or they were too scared to talk.”
“And you took one in the back.”
He sighed heavily. “Yeah. I took one in the back.”
“Did they ever make an arrest?”
He finished off his beer. “If you want to call it that. They told me a Hispanic kid, Hector Martinez, confessed. Said I walked in on him while he was cleaning out the concession stand at the recreation center and he popped me.”
“In the back…”
Burke smiled. “I spent twelve years in the criminal investigations department. I found the confession a little insulting.”
“What happened to the kid?”
He shrugged. “Last I heard, he got shipped off down to Pecos.”
“They sent a kid to Reeves?” I heard the surprise in my own voice. Reeves County Detention Center wasn’t for the faint of heart. It wasn’t a nice place to raise a kid.
He tilted his head, then shook it back and forth. “If I thought for a minute that kid was the one that put me in this chair, I’d say good riddance. But things being what they are, I almost feel sorry for him.”
“Have you ever talked to him?”
He shook his head. “I spent four weeks in intensive care, then three months in rehab. By the time I came home, Hector Martinez had already confessed, been sentenced, and shipped off. I never really felt the need. What was done was done. Wasn’t much I could do about it.”
“But you don’t believe—”
“Of course I don’t believe it. Whether it was some thug Denny hired or one of his own, I don’t know. But I’d bet my last breath Hector Martinez didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“And what about your son? Was he with the department back then?”
He nodded. “He took a family leave of absence when it happened, so he was out of the loop for a while.”
“So he wasn’t involved in the investigation at all? Not even after hours?”
“You have to understand, Gypsy. Hector Martinez confessed the day after I was shot. Within a matter of days, he was on his way to Reeves.”
“Did you ever discuss it with Ryce?”
He grinned. “Why do you think he transferred to the investigations department?”
I sat back on the sofa and finished off my beer. “Is it your case file he had a copy of?”
He stared at me long and hard, then slowly shook his head. “I was the tip of the iceberg.”
CHAPTER 6
Thankfully, Rhonda and Gram had helped only to set the table and hadn’t actually helped with the cooking. When it was ready, we sat crowded around a small table in the center of their kitchen. It was obvious they seldom had company. They existed to take care of one another and had little time for anything else. I imagined Ryce had been about my age. I wondered if he ever dated? If he ever went with the guys to a bar to catch a ballgame and drink a few beers? Or if his entire life revolved around work, then caring for his kid and disabled father?
But if tonight’s meal was an example of the kid’s culinary skills, no one needed to worry about the McCallens eating well. My fingers were sticky from the ribs; butter from the corn clung to my lips like lip gloss on a whore. If I decided to take the case, I might just do it simply for the food.
“So, what do you think?” Tatum asked as he cleared the last dishes from the table. “Do you want to see the files I’ve got?”
The kid didn’t beat around the bush. I liked that about him.
“Tatum, why don’t you take Gypsy outside and show him where it happened before it gets too dark,” Burke said. “I think you’ll find that pretty interesting.” He looked at me and slightly nodded. One investigator to another.
“Go ahead,” Rhonda said. “I’ll get the kitchen cleaned up.”
The kid’s face lit up with excitement. He looked at me for an okay so I stood up and motioned toward the door. I followed him out onto a deck overlooking the backyard. They actually had grass. In spots. The cacti were corralled to a landscaped area on the left side of the yard; on the right was a weathered wooden play set Tatum outgrew years ago. An aluminum shed was near the back, bordering a thin tree line, with an attached lean-to housing a push mower and other yard items. Three massive bur oaks in the center of the yard provided a nice shade source.
“It happened over here.” Tatum went down the steps and stopped at the middle tree. Jasper blew by him in hot pursuit of a daring jackrabbit. “He was hanging from this branch.” Tatum pointed upward, toward a thick branch at least ten feet off the ground. It was the lowest branch on the tree, though impossible to climb to without help.
I joined Tatum at the spot where his father had died, surprised at the kid’s lack of emotion. He’d been around cops too long.
“What happened the day you found him?”
“I knew something was wrong as soon as I got home because his car was here. He never comes home during the day.”
“So what happened?”
“I had just got home from school and I went inside, through the front door, and hollered for Dad. Grandpa had gone to the auction house with LeWellan Jacobs.”
LeWellan Jacobs. The author of the Letter to the Editor.
“When I got off the bus, Jasper didn’t come greet me, even when I called for him. I remember thinking something was up.”
“So when you got in the house, what happened?”
“I hollered for Dad, then I hollered for Grandpa, thinking he might have got back early. I went into the kitchen and put my book bag on the table then went to the refrigerator to get a drink and that’s when I saw him. I saw him through the kitchen window.” For the first time, his voice cracked and it had nothing to do with puberty. “I called 911 and told them I needed an ambulance, then I ran outside. I know you’re supposed to stay on the line w
ith the operator but … I knew they’d come even if you didn’t.” He turned away from me, lifting his hand to his face and wiping away tears he didn’t want me to see.
He sniffled, then squared his shoulders and turned back around. “I grabbed his legs and tried lifting him up, to take some of the pressure off, but … I wasn’t strong enough.”
I gently placed my hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure there wasn’t anything you could do at that point.”
He smiled softly, a sad smile that tore at my heart. “Didn’t stop me from trying.”
I walked around the tree, looking at the trunk and the branch that held Ryce’s weight. It was a stout branch, capable of supporting a good-sized man. It still didn’t explain how he got up there.
“What else do you remember?”
“Jasper was lying underneath him, whining real bad. I ran and got the ladder and tried to loosen the rope, but … it was pulled too tight.”
I wouldn’t allow myself to envision the panic Tatum must have felt. That would be getting too involved and I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that yet. “Where’d you get the ladder from?”
He pointed to the lean-to. “It was over there. But dad always kept it in the shed.”
I looked at him. “You’re sure about that? You’re one hundred percent sure you got it from the lean-to?”
He nodded. “That was one of the things I wondered about afterward. Why it was there in the first place and how’d Dad get up to that branch without it.”
“Did you tell the sheriff this?”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah. He said Dad must have climbed the tree.”
I walked around the tree again, paying closer attention to the trunk. I didn’t see any scuff marks, no broken bark, no indication anyone had recently tried to climb the tree.
I scratched my head then asked him again. “You are certain the ladder was under the lean-to?”
He nodded.
“And there wasn’t a box, or a step stool, maybe even the trash can, anywhere around the tree?”
He slowly shook his head.
I moved on, not wanting to dwell on the subject. The more I questioned Tatum about that one element, the more his memory would start inventing things that didn’t happen. “What happened when the paramedics arrived?”
Wink of an Eye Page 4