by J. T. Edson
Three
Looking along Station Street as he approached the depot in the wake of the R.P., Brad saw the familiar scene that he had come to associate with any homicide. Only this was not just any homicide. A good friend lay dead at the center of the attraction. Brad had never been so intimately connected with a killing as he was in this murder of his partner and friend.
The R.P. halted beyond the crowd of spectators who stood in a huddled group of the sidewalk. Turning, the car’s crew looked back to where Brad had stopped his M.G.
‘Want to go in closer?’ called the shotgun.
‘I’ll walk on in,’ Brad answered, swinging from the M.G. ‘Thanks for getting me here so quick.’
‘That’s all right. We hope you get the bastard.’
Having delivered that sentiment, the shotgun withdrew his head and the driver swung their car in a U-turn to drive off in the direction from which they came. Brad raised a hand in a salute as the car went by, then he walked along the street.
A small knot of people stood with their backs to him, watched over by a brace of patrolmen as they waited for developments. Three R.P.s and a black and white sheriff’s office Oldsmobile Super 88 deputy car filled spaces on the parking zone where the killers had waited for their victim. Before the steps an ambulance stood white and slightly sinister in such a setting, its crew already loading a sheet-draped form on a stretcher through the open rear doors. A black detective’s car parked ahead of the ambulance, two men Brad recognized stood by it, one of them speaking into the vehicle’s transmission microphone. Beyond the entrance to the depot, held back by more patrolmen, a second crowd stared, pointed and muttered in muted tones at each new development.
Even as Brad showed one of the guardian patrolmen his ID and walked by, a white-coated medical examiner joined the two men at the black D car, handed one a slip of paper, returned to the ambulance and climbed aboard to drive away. Halting for a moment, Brad watched the ambulance glide silently by. Inside it lay the body of his good friend, headed for the M.E.’s room where the autopsy would be performed; as always when a violent or unattended death took place.
Brad fought to prevent any emotion showing as he walked on. It was not his first contact with violent death. He had been forced to kill a man on his first day as a deputy and had slowly adjusted himself to the unpleasant realization that taking another human being’s life occasionally formed part of a peace officer’s duty. The man Brad had killed that day had been a badly wanted murderer with at least two deaths to his credit, and had been shooting at Brad when the young deputy’s lead had cut him down. So Brad felt little about killing—or as little as a thinking man could when forced to the ultimate of taking another human being’s life. The present case was different. No matter how Brad tried to tell himself otherwise, he knew he was involved deeply—perhaps too deeply.
Standing by the D car, cradling the microphone in one big hand, Deputy Ian Grantley gave Brad a nod, but continued to spit out his orders. ‘Road block fixed at junction of Main Highway 90 and State Auto Road 127, roger, Ted. Cen-Con, make sure Laslo detachment cover 118 as well as the Juarez Bridge. Notify Captain Garcia to be on lookout for dark blue, four door Plymouth Fury sedan, local plates, 176524. Two occupants believed white, male, American, both tall, one slim, other heavily built, they are armed and dangerous.’
‘Brad,’ greeted Grantley’s partner, Deputy Jake Melnick; a tall, slim, dark and serious-looking young man who rarely smiled and yet managed to look even less jovial at that moment. ‘We’ve put Operation Close-Off into full force.’
‘Thanks, Jake,’ Brad replied, then looked to where Grantley lowered the microphone. ‘I’ll take it, Ian.’
Grantley threw a long, searching look at Brad’s face, then swung his eyes to his partner. The same question rose in each man’s mind. Could a green deputy, even one who showed considerable promise and was the best all-round gun-handler in the sheriff’s office, take on so serious an investigation? Yet, as Tom’s partner, Brad could expect to be placed in charge of the case.
‘What’s been done so far?’ Brad continued without waiting for the other two to confirm or refuse his request.
‘Patrolman Schuster reported the—the killing,’ Grantley answered; even such a hard-bitten old hand found it difficult to stay calm and formal when death struck so close to him. ‘Schuster had passed the car a few minutes before. It was correctly parked, the meter paid, so he didn’t pay much attention. Got the number though, I’ve relayed it to D.M.V., and thinks the occupants to be two males, white, both tall, wearing dark slouch hats and darkish business suits. Can’t get it any closer than that. He recognized Tom and called in. We’ve started Operation Close-Off. Airport, railroad and bus depots covered, Border Patrol alerted, road-blocks in place.’
Rockabye County might be one of the largest in Texas and, with the oil-wells pouring out their Texas-tea, one of the richest, but there were few ways out of town that could not be effectively covered. The State Auto Road ran north to connect with Main Highway 90. A few second and lower-grade roads traversed the ninety-five mile length and one hundred and fifty mile width of the county. All could be, and already were, under observation. The Rio Grande formed the county’s southern boundary and the two bridges which crossed had alert, watchful men on them. Of course the killers might go across country, or along a river track, ditching their car and travelling on foot. Below the border Captain Garcia of the Mexican Police ran a very efficient organization and no two gringos could move far in his territory without word reaching him of their presence. If caught below the border the two men would be quietly returned to U.S. soil; part of a strictly unofficial arrangement between Jack Tragg and Garcia under which each returned the other’s wanted nationals across the international border without the delay and formality of official extradition processes.
Helicopters of the sheriff’s air patrol stood by. At the airport, the G.C.P.D.’s Flight Detail moved swiftly into action. Keen-eyed men scrutinized every passenger at the airport and anybody carrying a box or case long enough to contain a shotgun was politely but firmly requested to open up for a search. Just as keen a watch covered the city’s railroad and bus depots, and police cars scoured the streets, looking for the Plymouth.
No call ever received such prompt attention as when a lawman had been the victim of a killing. Esprit de corps alone did not account for the urgency. Any man who killed a policeman in cold blood was the most dangerous type of criminal and would not hesitate to cut down anybody who stood in his way.
Turning, Brad looked towards the steps. A chalk outline marked where the old deputy fell, the red stain was his life blood. Letting out a long sigh, Brad swung back in time to see a police photographer approach Grantley. The burly, red-haired detective nodded in Brad’s direction and it was to the big blond that the technician handed the results of his work; a sheaf of freshly developed Land Polaroid photographs of the scene of the crime.
‘They used a shotgun,’ Brad said in a low voice, studying the photographs and trying to keep the impersonal note in his voice.
‘Yes,’ Melnick agreed, taking an envelope from his pocket. ‘I found the shot-wads while measuring the street.’
A big black Buick came along the street as Brad took the envelope. The car bore Department of Motor Vehicles license plates and carried a built-in red blinker light on the front windscreen. Stepping forward, one of the patrolmen handling the far crowd threw open the Buick’s door and tossed a salute to the man who stepped out. While the car belonged to Chief of Police Phineas Hagen, it was the sheriff not the head of the G.C.P.D. who emerged.
Clad in a black tuxedo, Jack Tragg still gave the impression of the tall, tanned, traditional Western lawman. He stood six foot one, with close-cropped black hair and a sun-bronzed face which had the rugged charm of the outdoor man. Ignoring the flash bulbs of press cameras and the attempt by a couple of local reporters to throw questions at him, Jack walked to where his deputies stood. Unlike the majority of Texas, Roc
kabye County maintained its sheriff as a permanent officer and placed him as supreme head of all local law enforcement in the county. No law-abiding citizen could fault the system or claim that Jack Tragg did not give the tax-payers value for their money. Shrewd, efficient, capable, he ran the county’s law and maintained a happy balance with Chief Hagen who commanded a major city’s Police Department.
After glancing at the chalk outline for a moment, his lips working in soundless words that might have been a prayer, Jack joined his waiting deputies.
‘Who has it?’ he asked without wasting time on preliminaries.
A slight pause followed the sheriff’s words. Technically only the senior deputy present had the right to answer the question. Grantley, as senior man, made his decision fast.
‘Brad,’ he said.
‘All right, Brad,’ Jack went on, confirming Grantley’s decision. ‘How much’s been done?’
‘I’ve only just arrived,’ Brad replied. ‘Close-Off's in operation, all informed, the local work’s being tied up ’
‘Rudert and Klein from Headquarters are asking questions among the kibitzers and I sent a R.P. along Hardin,’ Grantley finished for Brad.
At that moment one of the G.C.P.D. detectives returned, a tall, bronzed man Brad thought he recognized accompanying him. Grantley jerked a thumb in Brad’s direction as the detective steered his charge that way.
‘Brad has it now,’ Grantley said. ‘He was Tom’s partner.’
‘Huh huh,’ grunted the detective. ‘This’s Mr. Carter—’
‘Hi there, Brad,’ greeted the witness, stepping past his escort. ‘Damned bad business this. You may not remember—’
‘I’ve shot skeet against you at the Club,’ Brad interrupted. ‘Did you see what happened?’
‘Not much of it. The wife was supposed to be on the nine-fifty and I stood in the hall waiting until everybody left. The feller—the one who was shot, he was last out. I’d seen the car, never gave it much attention though. Then I saw the muzzle-blast and heard the shots. Came from the back seat, with the barrel inside the car, not poking through the window. Twelve gauge, I’d say from the sound and flame. And, going on the time lapse between the shots, I’d guess at a single barrel pump gun.’
‘Could you be sure of that?’ Grantley asked.
‘Not to swear to in court,’ Carter admitted. ‘But I’m pretty fair with a shotgun and the time lag between the shots struck me as being about right for a good man handling the pump of a single barrel.’
‘You didn’t see what either of the men in the car looked like?’ Brad inquired, making the routine question automatically.
‘No, but one of your cops walked by it—’
‘We’ve got his story,’ Grantley grunted. ‘Car was legally parked and—’
‘No offence, Deputy,’ Carter said. ‘I know how the cop thought and don’t blame him. Say, one thing struck me though.’
‘What’s that?’ asked a mollified Grantley.
‘The smooth way the driver got his heap rolling right after the shooting. It looked like real good team-work to me.’
‘Schuster remarked on that, Brad,’ Melnick put in.
‘Huh huh,’ Brad acknowledged, docketing the information and turning to Carter. ‘Thanks for your help, Frank. We might want to get in touch.’
‘I’ll be around,’ Carter promised, and returned to the crowd.
‘Can we rely on him, Brad?’ Jack asked. ‘His guess about the gun, I mean.’
‘He’s a shotgun nut, Jack,’ Brad replied, and even in his grief at the loss of Tom Cord could not resist going on, ‘and they’re even worse than revolver-cranks.’
Jack and Grantley exchanged satisfied nods. Many a heated discussion had raged among the deputies on the relative merits of revolver and automatic pistol as a combat weapon, with Brad defending automatics vehemently. If he could make his usual dig at revolver-users, Brad would be all right in the handling of the case.
‘Put it on the air then, Ian,’ Jack ordered. ‘Suspects may be armed with pump-action shotgun.’
‘Yo!’ Grantley replied and returned to the D car to relay a piece of information which might save some policeman’s life if he came across the killers. A pump-action shotgun carried five shells as opposed to the two in a double barreled weapon.
‘Anything I can be doing, Brad?’ asked Melnick.
‘Can you try to learn why Tom waited until last before leaving the depot?’
‘I’ll make a stab at it.’
Watching Brad and listening to his request, Jack Tragg gave a slight nod. This was the testing time for the young deputy, his moment of truth, when he must either prove himself— justifying Jack’s decision to hire him—or fall by the wayside. Certainly Brad appeared to be steady enough and thinking objectively; the crack about revolver-cranks and his request to Melnick proved that.
‘I have the wife in the car, Brad,’ Jack said. ‘We’ll go break the news to Mavis Cord. Finish here, then go back to the office and start things moving there.’
The second detective came up with news that none of his section of the crowd could give assistance in the case.
‘Unless you want us for anything around here, Rudy and I’ll prowl for a spell,’ he finished.
‘Thanks,’ Brad replied.
At normal times some rivalry existed between the G.C.P.D. Detective Bureau and the sheriff’s office. Because of their countywide jurisdiction, Jack and Hagen ruled the deputies based on Gusher City, acted as the area’s Homicide Squad, a decision which did not meet with the approval of the majority of detectives. The murder of a deputy cancelled inter-departmental rivalry. Rudert and Klein were willing to continue working on the case all night in the hope of digging up some fact that might help bring Tom’s killers to book.
Watching the detectives walk to their car, Brad became aware of the responsibility he bore and the enormity of the task which lay ahead of him. On previous murder investigations, Tom Cord stood at his side, ready to give advice and throw in the weight of his years of experience. Now Brad faced the task of commanding his first major investigation alone—with his friend as the victim.
Brad knew he could rely on the full cooperation of every peace officer in the county, and beyond its boundaries should that become necessary. Nor would he be working alone. One of the other deputies would be assigned to assist him. That brought up another point. All the deputies working from the county’s four sub-offices and the main office in Gusher City operated in regular two-man teams. Good team co-ordination could make or break an investigation, but it did not come in a day. Brad wondered who he should ask to partner him on the case.
‘Want any more here, Brad?’ Grantley asked as the D car drew away.
Before Brad could reply, Melnick returned. ‘Tom stopped on talking with Dooley of the Depot Detail, nothing important, just passing the time of day.’
‘Thanks, Jake. Let’s get back to the office.’
‘Sure. Do you want to come in our car?’
‘I’ve got my own heap here,’ Brad replied.
‘We’ll see you back there then,’ Grantley stated, and joined his partner to collect the Oldsmobile.
Brad stood alone on the pavement, the sheaf of photographs still held in his hand. Already the crowd, sensing that nothing further would develop, began to scatter. Knowing the local peace officers, the newspapermen headed for the sheriff’s office to collect the Public Relations Bureau handouts instead of wasting time trying to question the officers involved.
Slowly Brad dropped his eyes to the chalk outline and patch of dark color which stained the steps. By morning the Department of Sanitation’s street-washing units would have washed the chalk and blood away, leaving no sign that a man died on that spot.
Throwing off the thought, Brad gave a last look around. He called over one of the patrolmen and told him to resume his watch, then walked back to the M.G. No more could be done at the scene of the crime, so he must make for the sheriff’s office and start o
rganizing every available asset in the hunt for Tom Cord’s killers.
Four
No longer did the Rockabye County sheriff work out of an adobe shack on Main Street. Instead he shared a modern, six storey building with the Headquarters Division of the G.C.P.D.
Brad left his M.G. in the municipal employees’ parking lot, crossed Randel Street and entered the front doors of the Department of Public Safety Building. Crossing the entrance hall, he rode the elevator to the third floor, stepping out into the old familiar scene. Facing the elevator doors, a double flight of stairs led up and down. To the right of the stairs lay the sheriff’s office records’ room, unlit as yet. Next was the comfortable room used by visitors while waiting for service. Lastly came the men’s locker room. Three doors graced the left side of the stairs, two bearing the grim legend ‘FIREARMS INVESTIGATION LABORATORY. STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE’, a pointless warning as not only were the doors locked and bolted from the inside, but heavy, well-loaded metal cabinets stood in place to keep them shut. The third door, nearest the stairs, bore the F.I.L. inscription without the prohibitive warning. One could enter that room provided one kept to the visitor’s side of the dividing rail and did not waste Lieutenant Jed Cornelius’ and his three-man squad’s valuable time. The busy attitude of F.I.L. was not a pose, when not engaged in firearms investigation, the four men found plenty of work in reloading ammunition for use in the county’s extensive training program.
Facing F.I.L. were Jack Tragg’s office, the watch commander’s room and the deputies’ squad room. On the other side of the elevators one found an interrogation room, specially built to protect its users from abuses and false accusations, the Missing Persons Bureau and lastly a small room with ‘MEN’S’ painted on the door.
On entering the squad room, Brad found all the fourteen local male deputies and one of the female officers present. The Gusher City Office worked a two-watch rota, from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon and four until midnight. If officers were needed on a case after midnight, Headquarters Division’s Business Office called them from their homes. Usually only the eight members of the night watch—less such as might be out on a case—would have been present, but the killing of a fellow officer brought in the off-watch personnel to lend a hand.