Tom followed us to my house, where we found Jennifer sitting on the front step with her device — no doubt giving orders to her cyber cohorts.
Once inside and supplied with drinks, I asked Tom, “Couldn’t rustlers easily miss those Angus? Someone that far away spotting them as valuable livestock…”
He eyed me. “It’s not just recognizing they’re Angus. It’s registered, high-performers.”
“See? That makes it even more of a stretch.”
“Not for a cattleman.”
At first, I thought that was meant to put me in my place. I started to twist my mouth in acknowledgment I wasn’t a cattleman.
Halfway there, I stopped.
“Rustlers aren’t cattlemen? I mean, I know you said York wasn’t, so you’re saying that even if he’d seen them other times—”
“He had.”
“—he wouldn’t know they were more valuable. But… How can that be?”
“Rustlers are after the money, not the cattle. Jack told you last night, a fair number are feeding a drug habit, like people breaking in and stealing TVs or computers.”
I sat back. “They’re thieves.”
“Yeah.” He said that like he didn’t get my point.
“There’s this view — I guess it’s the romanticism of the West — that rustlers aren’t thieves like the guy who knocks over a convenience store is.”
“Romanticism of the West,” he repeated with his own twist.
“Yes. Accept it. It’s real. At least real as far as being imbedded in people’s imaginations can be, which is pretty real. And rustling’s part of that. Rustlers, highwaymen, pirates, art thieves. All of them perceived as more romantic than criminal.”
“Not to the people they steal from.”
“It’s not about the reality. It’s the perception. Except in this case, it might be about the reality and not the perception. The reality is rustlers who don’t know cattle, who are after the money, first, last, and always.” I pulled a mini-legal pad out of my bag. “Let’s go over all the episodes of rustling you know about.”
“I can take notes—”
“I want your hands free to do searches to get any incidents we miss, Jennifer.”
Diana picked up the pad. “I’ll take the notes.”
I turned to Tom. “You’ve always suspected Furman York?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything more than prejudice?”
“Is it prejudice to know what a man’s capable of?”
“Especially after the confirmation from Clyde,” Diana said.
I didn’t answer directly. Clyde was not an unbiased source, according to Needham. Nor had he shared the bit of history. “Okay, let’s get to work.”
* * * *
Tom picked up the pad, looking at the list of nine incidents carefully, though he already knew what was on it, because he’d helped create it.
The two incidents he hadn’t contributed, he’d heard Jennifer share as a result of her searches.
At the moment, she was creating a spreadsheet to put the list into, having taken a photo of the list to work off of.
The list hadn’t told me much, but I could tell it spoke loudly to him.
“Not prejudice now,” he said softly.
“Why?”
“A lot of grazing association members on that list, aren’t there?” Diana asked.
“There are. And six I know for a fact had run-ins with Furman York. The other three, I don’t know about. I can find out fast enough. Along with the dates we don’t have firm.”
“Do that.”
Pulling his phone out, he took the pad with him out to the back yard.
Diana and I refreshed the drinks. I made more lemonade.
As Jennifer finished typing, she explained she had columns for name of rancher, name of ranch, number of cattle taken, date of rustling.
She tapped buttons, rearranging the listings.
Tom returned and gave Jennifer three more names, as well as filling in dates and details on several entries.
“Look.” She tapped keys and the list sorted, jumbling the names, while sequencing the dates. “Or I can do it by—”
“Wait. Go back to the dates,” Tom said.
He leaned forward, looking over her shoulder. As he straightened, he clasped her shoulder and squeezed. “Good job.”
“You’ve spotted something — what?” I demanded.
“It started in the eastern part of the county, like it leaked over the eastern county line. If you plotted those reports by date on a map of the county, you’d see it creeping west like an advancing army. Except one blank spot. Lukasik Ranch.”
“Wait. Just a second.” Jennifer tapped a few more buttons. “This sorts by dates first, then number of cattle taken. That trends up.”
“Nice.” I scanned that column. “He was getting bolder—”
“Or more careless,” Tom said.
“—and greedier as he went.”
“The blank for Lukasik Ranch… Did Lukasik know? Was he in on it with York?” Diana asked.
Tom rubbed at the back of his neck. “I don’t like the man, but why would Lukasik get involved in rustling? He’s got a name, a career that would all go up in smoke. For what?”
“Money? Maybe he’s not as rich as everybody thinks.” I paused after saying that.
“Got it. I’ll check his financials — only what’s public.” Jennifer didn’t even look up. “This is interesting and all, but what does it mean to the investigation? Unless you think all of the people who had cattle rustled killed him, like that movie on the train where a bunch of people stabbed the murderer of a baby, not knowing which was the fatal blow.”
“Too bad Mike can’t ask Aunt Gee how many times he was shot,” Diana said.
“Once,” Tom said.
My thoughts hadn’t left an earlier point.
“You said these rustlers aren’t cattlemen, Tom. And Furman York wasn’t part of the ranchers’ guild.”
“Yeah.”
“What about Norman Clay Lukasik? Is he a cattleman?”
“No.”
“Part of the ranchers’ guild?”
“You mean joining in at roundups, branding, helping out? No.”
“Would you call Lukasik a rancher?”
He answered without inflection. “He owns a ranch.”
Ah, Thomas David Burrell, I’m on to you. At least a little.
In his own, understated Wyoming way, he’d just shouted, Hell no, he’s not a rancher.
I kept coming back to that question — why would someone who didn’t care for ranching own a ranch?
“What next?” Jennifer asked. “I mean I can get the gang started on Lukasik’s financials, and keep on the rest of it, including York’s timeline, but I mean overall.”
Expelling a breath, I said, “We sure would be better off if we could talk to Hiram and the only way to Hiram is through James Longbaugh.”
I was aware of the others’ gazes aiming toward Tom and joined the crowd.
He had his head down, placing his glass on a napkin on the coffee table. “Already called James.”
I wasn’t totally sure he’d said what I thought I’d heard. I had to play the words through my head a second time before I said, “Really? Voluntarily?”
“Knew it was coming when you said out at Lukasik Ranch that you wanted to talk to Hiram. Going through his lawyer’s the only chance at that, so…” He shrugged and sat back on the couch.
We waited. At least a second or two.
Then Jennifer beat me to the next question. “What did he say? James Longbaugh. What did he say about talking to Hiram?”
“Said he’d have to ask Hiram. And he’d message me after he did.”
“When was that? When do you think he’ll get an answer from Hiram? How much longer—?”
Those were all Jennifer’s questions. She had the bases covered, so I could watch Tom. He was enjoying this.
“Got a message just before I came in.�
�
“What? And you didn’t tell us? What did he say?” I beat Jennifer to it this time. But she expelled a breath on an empathetic, “Yeah.”
“You—” He looked at me. “—and I are scheduled to meet James at the jail in half an hour.”
“You?” Jennifer repeated in a not completely flattering tone, directed at Tom.
“No, no, that makes sense,” Diana said. “Both Hiram and James know Tom better than they do any of the rest of us. He might even have some influence over Hiram.”
“Don’t count on it,” Tom muttered.
“Wait a minute. Shelton approved this?” I asked.
Tom raised one shoulder. “Or James talked him into it. Wouldn’t be happening without Wayne’s okay.”
“Interesting time. Late in the day. Like maybe they don’t want a lot of people around? Who picked it?”
“James said Wayne set the time. If you don’t like it, you can say no thanks.”
“Hah.” Shelton would only say yes if he saw a benefit to his investigation. That was okay if it also got us what we wanted.
“Mike’s going to have a conniption,” Jennifer predicted. “Already feels he’s missing out on everything.”
Diana picked up her bag. “No problem with me. Drop me at the dentist’s office for my truck and I’ll go home and see my kids, feed them supper. This should be good, actually — surprising them to see what they’re really doing when I’m not there.”
“I’ll stay here and check in with the rest of the gang.”
Jennifer’s casualness caught my attention. “No hacking. I—”
“Why do you always say that?”
“Because your gang scares me and—”
“I thought you liked them.”
“Most of them.” That didn’t mean I trusted even the ones I liked. “And this time you’d be using my internet connection, which means the authorities or the black hats or whoever else would come after my poor, innocent, little cyber footprint.”
“If you’d let me do more security around your—”
“That’s not the point. No hacking, period, for your sake and because your nice parents would hate visiting you in prison. And especially no hacking here, at my house, for those reasons and because I don’t want my nice parents to have to visit me in prison.”
“Nobody’s going to prison,” she scoffed.
“Jennifer.”
“Fine, fine. I won’t hack from here.”
I think she’d just pulled a Tamantha on me.
Chapter Thirty
We entered the sheriff’s department to see James Longbaugh talking with Wayne Shelton at the end of the hallway, back where they dispensed something only sadists would call coffee.
“Hi, Wayne,” I said with a big smile, all for the edification of the desk deputy named Ferrante, whose life ambition centered on denying me access to Shelton.
Shelton scowled, but Ferrante couldn’t see that. He could only see my cheerful wave as I led Tom down the hallway.
After greeting James, I said to Shelton, “This is going to take a while. You know Hiram, and you can’t expect us to get in and out fast. It’s going to take time to open him up.”
He jerked one hand and tipped his head in an impatient and dismissive gesture.
Better than I’d hoped for.
“Get in there and sit.”
James led us to the larger of two interview rooms. He gestured for me to sit in the middle on one side of the table in the room.
“Don’t expect much,” he said.
“He’s not talking?” I asked.
“Oh, he’s talking all right. All about how he’s not going to talk because the sheriff’s department is determined to ruin his life. But he’s not answering questions.”
Tom frowned. “Not telling you what happened?”
“Not what happened, not why he was there, not why he appears to have been inside that house at the grazing association, even though he didn’t take anything. He suspects I’m part of the conspiracy. Good thing you called me, Tom, because he used his one phone call for something else, won’t say what. The good thing is he hasn’t refused to see me.” He considered a moment. “Maybe a good thing. Maybe not.”
I patted the lawyer’s arm. “Hang in there, James. You’ve had difficult clients before.”
Tom pretended not to notice us looking at him.
The door of the small room we sat in opened and Lloyd Sampson escorted Hiram in. He wore a jail jumpsuit and handcuffs. But no leg shackles and his cuffs were in front. That qualified as downright casual treatment if they considered him a murder suspect.
While Lloyd took Hiram to the chair on the opposite side of the table, Shelton followed them as far as the doorway.
“We’ll be watching you.” He jerked his head to a mirror on the wall behind Tom, James, and me. On the other side of the wall, it became a window in an even smaller room used largely for storage.
“No sound,” James warned.
“No sound,” Shelton confirmed.
When the door closed behind the deputies, I smiled warmly at the prisoner. “Hi, Hiram.”
He grunted.
Off to a great start.
“Hiram, you know we want to talk to you about things that only you can give us information on.”
The lines in his face shifted, reminding me of a stubborn newborn.
“We’re researching and we’ve heard from many other people. You, though, have a unique perspective, because you were on the jury of the trial for the murder of Leah Pedroke.”
Stubborn gave way to shock.
He listened as I outlined what I knew of the trial and the case — without using York’s or Lukasik’s names, which required a few verbal loop-da-loops. Worthwhile to avoid his defenses cutting off communication.
“…and then the not guilty came in,” I finished neutrally, watching him.
Four breaths, then a fifth. Nothing.
When he spoke, I had to tamp down a jolt.
“I ain’t never taken a bribe. I did my civic duty and they put me on that jury and I sat there and listened to everything they said — the prosecutor guy and Lukasik and every one of those witnesses, even when it was boring as hell. So boring I’d like to fall asleep. Didn’t let myself. Stayed awake the whole time. And then we get into that jury room and the talking and talking and talking. You wouldn’t believe it. Little room. All those people yapping away. Hour after hour.”
“You know some people believe the defense bribed a juror?”
“I ain’t talking about that. Haven’t and won’t.”
“Okay, Hiram, we’ll leave that.” His fisted hands eased. “When you found Furman York, what did you do?”
“Whaddya think I did? Pull out my gun and shoot him? The sheriff’s department’s checking that up one side and down the other. Still got my gun. Had it long enough now I should start charging them for rentin’ it. Because they ain’t ever going to find any evidence I used it to kill that bastard York, because I didn’t.”
If my theory based on Lloyd Samson’s reaction and Alvaro’s suppression of it was right, though, Hiram could have used York’s gun to commit the murder.
“Let me rephrase,” I said smoothly. “What did you do when you found Furman York’s body?”
“Whaddya think I did?” he repeated. “I called the sheriff’s department to report a dead body at the grazing association.”
“Did you check him for a pulse?”
“Pulse? Clear as certain he was dead. Didn’t have to play patty-fingers with him to know that with the big hole in him.”
“Did you touch him at all or—”
“You think I’m an ignoramus? Think I never seen Dateline or those others? Everybody knows you don’t move the body. Don’t move it. Don’t mess with it. Don’t touch it. Nothin’. And that’s what I did — nothing. ’Cept call the sheriff’s department and sure as hell wish now I hadn’t done that.”
Playing to his Dateline-fueled confidence, I asked
, “Knowing about crime scenes, did you notice any footprints or—?”
I stopped because he’d cocked his head like a grumpy, alert, overfed bird again. This time a Baltimore Oriole, considering his jail jumpsuit’s hue.
“First smart thing you asked me, girl. Smarter than the crowd here ever asked. No footprints. But there were marks like something swished one way, then the other, over and over.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t know. Except way too wide to be reins. Wider than a halter, even a saddle strap? Saddle blanket maybe?”
Reins, halter, saddle strap, saddle blanket… “Do you have reason to think someone was there on horseback?” Tom had shot that down, but—
“No.” Grumpiness overtook alert. “Didn’t say that, did I? Just said the marks were made by something wider than reins or a halter and such.”
“Right up to York’s body? Or was there an area close to him that—”
“Right up to his dead carcass. And all around him.”
“How far out?”
“Five, six feet.”
“What else did you see?”
“Nothin’. Not a darned thing. Just Furman York with a hole in his chest and blood around him on that swished ground.”
“The weapon?”
“That woulda been something to see, wouldn’t it? And I said nothing. Nothing is nothing. No gun. No footprints. No killer. Nothin’.”
No weapon.
Taken away? Or still there, under the body?
Wiping out footprints could match either possibility.
Wiping all around indicated the killer’s footprints in several places, as they would be in a fight.
“Why did you go to the grazing association yesterday, Hiram?”
“Picking up a wrench I’d left there,” he said promptly.
“A wrench.” I kept every iota of disbelief out of my voice, despite the flood of it in my brain.
“My favorite wrench.”
James sighed. The sigh of someone who’d heard this story before and told the teller it didn’t pass a believability test.
“Left it in the old Paycik house by accident last time I was there. Went to get it back. As I returned to my truck, I saw that gleam up on that little knoll the drive goes around. Went up to see. That’s when I spotted Furman York. Dead. Dead when I saw him. Dead before I got there. Don’t know why anybody thinks otherwise. I didn’t kill that piece of grime that was worth less than the cow dung left on my boots from last winter.”
Reaction Shot (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 9) Page 18