Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella)

by John Stonehouse

The sheriff sits behind a cluttered desk. “Don't you ever get home?”

  The marshal looks at him. “Don't you?”

  “You're spending the night in my department building, why is that?”

  “I brought the young woman.”

  “Juanita Jones,” McCoy says.

  “Figured y'all would have the space. I thought you might want with talk to her.”

  “You think she could have been here today?”

  Whicher leans back in the chair. “She says she was down at the South Fields Fair.”

  “In Lubbock?”

  “She says she was with somebody, a guy running a stall.”

  The sheriff picks a pen off the desk, squints at it. “What's she have to say about all of this?”

  “For now, not a whole bunch. But you'll find her prints in the house.”

  He puts down the pen. “And why's that?”

  “She knows Lynch, she's been there.”

  The sheriff laces his fingers together, a look on his face, his eyes turned away. “This girl being the daughter of a friend of yours—you're sure that's alright, there's no conflict of interest?”

  “She turned herself in to me. I'm taking her back to court, that's it.”

  McCoy looks at him for a long moment across the desk. He sits forward. “Alright. So tell me what happened when you caught up with Lynch?”

  “He says he was working. He works a twenty-four hour call. According to him, he was in Scurry County last night—a supervisor told him to get himself across to Gaines.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Middle of the night. Around three, he says.”

  “What's he have to say about a guy getting shot to death in his back yard?”

  “He says he never heard of any Tommy Ray Fallon. He wasn't at the house, doesn't know zip.”

  McCoy stares from behind the desk.

  “I'll say he was shocked. But I reckon he was shocked some before I got there.”

  “No shit?”

  “I have to check with the supervisors on both rigs, I need to call 'em in the morning.”

  The sheriff leans back. “Well,” he says. “I can tell you a couple months back, a DEA agent was out here looking at him.”

  Whicher eyes the sheriff. He reaches for the notepad in his jacket pocket.

  “They had an agent looking for possible low-level dealers. Speed, crank, cocaine, marijuana. DEA reckon greasers are sometimes known to use—they'll take something to keep awake, keep up with the workload. Then maybe take a little something after, just to wind it back down.”

  Whicher thinks of the LPD charge against Juanita—intent to supply.

  The sheriff spreads his palms. “I'm not saying it could have been a drug deal, this thing. I'm saying that's the background on Lynch. But this guy Fallon worked for a bail bond company, you been looking for a bail skip—you don't think it sticks out?”

  “Fairgreen Bail Bond didn't put it in recovery.”

  “Why'd you bring Miss Jones here?” McCoy says. “I been in this job twelve years—something don't sit right. She have a defense attorney?”

  Whicher nods.

  “Out of Lubbock?”

  “Evelyn Lopez.”

  “I'd get her here early, marshal.”

  “And why's that?”

  “Because family or no, friend or no, she's going to need a God damn lawyer come the morning.”

  Chapter Six

  In the motel room in Floydada, the drapes are open, the blinds half-closed.

  Whicher dozes on the bed, face turned to the window.

  The motel is thirty minutes west of Torero, close to I-27. He thinks of his boyhood home in Quitaque, forty miles, half a lifetime away.

  Years since he's been there. A young man, itching to see the world, he could hardly wait to get away.

  He'd joined the army, 3rd Armored Cavalry—served all over the country, fought overseas in '91.

  The Persian Gulf War in Iraq.

  Hard to think of it, so far back.

  Eighteen years already, since leaving the army. The memories still fresh; Butch Jones, young—his daughter, Juanita, not far off the age of Lori, now.

  The marshal rolls on his side, gets off the bed, suddenly awake.

  He walks to the bathroom, runs water from the faucet, unwraps a plastic cup, fills it. Drinks it down.

  He can hear a call on his cell phone.

  He steps from the bathroom, crosses to the nightstand, whips up the phone, answers.

  “I just pulled into the lot...”

  Through the half-open blind, he sees a set of headlights at the far end of the parking bay.

  A Nissan four by four.

  Its lights die.

  Butch Jones climbs out.

  At six-four, he barely fits in the motel chair. Butch's face is lined, fleshy, dark eyes set deep. The wavy hair is flecked with gray, plaid shirt tight around the gut. He stares at the floor, shoulders primed, like a boxer.

  “I have to call the court,” Whicher says.

  “When can I see her?”

  “In the morning. Just as soon as I know what they want to do.”

  The big man grunts.

  “Sheriff McCoy wants an interview. He'll be back around eight-thirty. He gets his interview, so long as we can okay it with the attorney.”

  “I'll call her,” Butch says, “first thing.”

  Whicher reaches for the jacket hanging on a rail. “Tell me about the calls you made tonight.” He takes out his notepad. “Maureen Carter...”

  Butch sits up a little. “She was one of the last.”

  The marshal flicks through the pages of notes. “She worked in a burger joint in Lubbock, with Juanita?”

  “Right.”

  “She a new friend, or old?”

  “Man, I don't know. Juanita knows a lot of people. She's friends with 'em a while, then she don't see 'em.”

  “But they worked together?”

  “Earlier this year.” Butch runs his fingers along the ridges of his knuckles. “Juanita moved into that apartment, I staked her a couple of months on the rent. She needed a job.”

  “She didn't have one?”

  “Her mother was about to up and leave, the pair of 'em fighting the whole time...”

  “And Maureen Carter reckoned Juanita did know Tommy Ray Fallon? You think you can get her to talk about it?”

  “Juanita? You think she should?”

  Whicher frowns.

  “Talk about it,” Butch says.

  “What the hell's that supposed to mean?”

  “If you know she knew him...” The big man slumps in the chair. “You'd be obliged to act.”

  Whicher doesn't answer.

  The room falls silent a moment.

  “What else did she tell you?”

  Butch presses his lips together. Blows the air out from his cheeks.

  “Was Juanita seeing him?”

  Butch barely nods.

  “She was seeing Fallon? How come Katy-Jo never mentioned that?”

  “She moved in after Juanita took the place. A couple months after. Katy-Jo came in to share the rent, Juanita couldn't make it once she up and quit her job.”

  “Tommy Ray Fallon was before then?”

  “According to Maureen Carter,” Butch says. “This Fallon guy had some kind of short-lived thing with Juanita. They broke up. But after, he used to call, Juanita wouldn't talk, didn't want to see him. Maureen reckoned he might've been violent. That he maybe hit her...”

  Whicher breaks off to stare at the window; a dark world waiting through the slatted blind.

  Butch clears his throat. “What do you think?”

  “Not good, Butch. Not real good.”

  Chapter Seven

  Rolling scrub extends in all directions from the highway—a tan savanna, scant sign of any life.

  Butch Jones drags an air line over the gas station forecourt. He crouches at the rear wheel of a Nissan Pathfinder, unscrews the dust cap.
<
br />   Whicher stands on the oil-stained concrete, early sun at the back of his neck. “I want to be there before McCoy arrives.”

  “I got a slow leak in this damn thing.”

  Whicher studies the SUV, the worn tires, marked-up rims. It's ten years old, a couple of dings in the side. “Maybe we should take Juanita down to Lubbock. Stall the sheriff.”

  Butch pushes back a tattered Rangers baseball hat. “You said you wanted to let him see her.”

  “If there's no lawyer, she can't be questioned.”

  “You want to jerk the sheriff around?”

  “Juanita skipped on a felony charge, that carries two to ten in state prison.”

  Butch wrenches the air line off the valve.

  “Maybe I can get the sheriff thinking he'd be better to wait,” Whicher says. “If there's no attorney, nothing Juanita says would be admissible.”

  Butch stands, kicks the tire with a boot. “How in hell are we going tell him she knew this guy Fallon?”

  In Torero, at the top end of Main Street, the half-deserted diner faces east, toward the rising sun.

  Juanita Jones sits by her father in the diner booth. On the table, half-eaten plates of huevos motulenos sit between the coffee cups.

  Whicher finishes up a plate of fried plantain and country ham.

  Beyond the window, the sidewalk's empty, no traffic moving out on the street.

  “Yesterday morning,” Whicher says.

  Juanita looks at him.

  “Roll it back in your mind.”

  She's barely picked at her food, hardly spoken.

  “Run me through what happened.”

  Her eyes cut away.

  “They let you out of jail so you can eat,” Whicher says. “You get done, I have to take you on back.”

  She looks at him from across the table, eying the suit, the neck-tie, the hat.

  Whicher lets his gaze shift to the store fronts lining the opposite sidewalk. A few of them still open among the white-painted windows and 'Letting' signs. “I'll tell you what I told your pa already. Failing to show up on a felony charge is serious business.”

  “The charge is bullshit.”

  “Honey,” Butch says. “You want to watch your mouth?”

  “If it's bull, your attorney is going to quash it,” Whicher says. “So far, you're doing a pretty good job screwing that up.”

  “I was with Emilio.” Juanita lets out a tight sigh.

  “You stayed where?” Whicher says.

  “At the fairground.”

  “Right there on the site?”

  “He has a trailer.”

  “Why couldn't you just go on in to the court?” Butch says.

  Juanita stares at her father.

  “You can't run from this.”

  “They're trying to make out I'm a dealer,” Juanita says, voice rising. “I was scared, I was freaking out.”

  “A man was murdered at Brandon Lynch's house yesterday,” Whicher says. “Tommy Ray Fallon.”

  “We think you knew him,” Butch says.

  Juanita sits very still in the booth.

  “I called everybody I could think to call,” Butch says. “I spoke with your friend, Maureen Carter.”

  Whicher puts down his fork on his plate.

  Juanita covers up her face with her hands. Her black hair tumbles forward. “I knew him a couple of months.” She takes her hands from her face.

  “Maureen Carter reckoned he was in the habit of calling up,” Butch says.

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Whicher says.

  “I don't know.”

  Whicher looks at her. “You think about it for me.”

  “I don't keep a diary.”

  The marshal feels Butch's gaze from across the table. “A guy you used to know is murdered at the house of your boyfriend. You don't have a thing to say?”

  The muscles work in the side of her face.

  “Brandon Lynch says you have a set of keys to that house.”

  The breath stops in her throat a second.

  “It's all just nothing? It don't mean squat?”

  Juanita looks at her father, eyes filmed.

  Whicher turns in his seat, puts up a hand to call for the check.

  “Do we have to go?” Juanita says.

  “Sheriff McCoy knows I was looking for you yesterday. At Lynch's house.”

  “I was with Emilio, at the fairground...”

  “You'll need sworn witnesses.”

  “I can get them.”

  Butch chews at a hangnail.

  “You need to be in court this morning,” Whicher says. “We'll say you voluntarily turned yourself in. You better hope we can come up with something the judge will buy.”

  “What do we do about the sheriff?” Butch says.

  “Juanita claims the fifth, the right to counsel.”

  “You're going to blow him out?”

  “She has the right to her lawyer being present. If the sheriff's got no evidence against her...”

  “You think he'll let her walk?”

  Whicher wipes his hands on a paper napkin. “I guess we're about to find that out.”

  The Chevy Tahoe in the lot of the sheriff's department belongs to McCoy—Whicher recognizes it from the night before.

  He pulls the Silverado in off the street—shuts off the motor, checks the handcuffs at Juanita's wrists.

  Butch parks alongside.

  Whicher steps out, walks around the front of the truck.

  He opens up the passenger door.

  Juanita slides out.

  Butch flanks his daughter's side.

  The three of them cross the lot, enter the building.

  Reception is empty apart from the squat figure of Sheriff McCoy.

  “Deputy Pierce said y'all stepped out?” The sheriff smooths down his olive uniform pants.

  Whicher nods.

  “To get breakfast?”

  “Miss Jones is my responsibility,” Whicher says. “She needs to eat.”

  Sheriff McCoy looks at Butch.

  “I'm the father.”

  McCoy's smile is sour. He turns back to Whicher. “I told you I wanted to speak with Miss Jones.”

  “She has to be in Lubbock. I advised her she could talk with you—voluntarily.”

  McCoy tilts back his head, puts a hand to his hip.

  From the lobby behind reception is the sound of voices—a man and a woman talking.

  “Miss Jones's defense attorney can't come up, this short notice,” Whicher says. “She can't come here, then be back in Lubbock in time to go before the court.”

  “That a fact?”

  “If she has no attorney, Miss Jones has to give consent...”

  “Which I don't,” Juanita says.

  “Deputy Pierce,” the sheriff calls out.

  “I don't consent,” Juanita says. “I'm not talking.”

  Deputy Pierce steps behind the counter.

  “Can we get a duty lawyer in here?” the sheriff says.

  Pierce extends his arm, looks at his watch. “I can call out.”

  “You can interview Miss Jones,” Whicher says. “Maybe now's just not the time.”

  “Deputy Pierce?” says McCoy. “Are you done taking the witness statement?”

  “Yessir.” The deputy nods. “I guess we're pretty much done.”

  “You want to bring her on out?”

  Pierce nods, scratches at his beard. He disappears back into the lobby.

  Whicher looks from Juanita to Butch.

  The deputy returns with a woman—Hispanic, middle-aged—wearing jeans, a yellow sun top.

  In one hand, Pierce holds a pen along with a carbon-backed form.

  “Mrs Gomez,” the sheriff says. “Do you recognize this young woman?”

  Juanita stares.

  The woman nods.

  “You do?”

  “I seen her,” the woman says.

  “You've seen her before? Can you say where?”

 
“Around here.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  The woman shrugs. “Around his house.”

  “Brandon Lynch's house?” the sheriff says.

  Whicher holds up a hand. “Y'all mind telling me who this is?”

  “Rosa Gomez,” McCoy says. “Mrs Gomez is a neighbor to Brandon Lynch.”

  “She heard about what happened,” Deputy Pierce says. “She came in to report seeing a vehicle in the front yard, yesterday morning.”

  Whicher looks from Pierce to the Hispanic woman.

  The deputy reads from the form. “An '81 Chevrolet Camaro...”

  “How y'all know that?”

  The woman shifts, one foot to another. “I seen it, my husband seen it. He told me that's what it was.”

  “Metallic green,” Deputy Pierce says.

  “It was painted fancy.”

  “That's a non-standard color on the Camaro,” Pierce says. “It had a bumper sticker out of Lubbock.”

  “Mrs Gomez walked by it twice,” the sheriff says. “On the way to the store and back.” He turns to Juanita. “Is it your car?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Do you know who owns it?”

  No reply.

  Whicher throws a look in her direction, feels the lick of alarm.

  Juanita only stands mute.

  As the silence in the room spreads and grows.

  Chapter Eight

  Lubbock, TX.

  * * *

  Four flags hang from the marble-walled corridor in the county courthouse—The Stars and Stripes, State of Texas, Lubbock County, the Judicial Seal.

  A group of suited men hustle into the corridor. Behind them, court security officers escort a detainee.

  Whicher thinks of Juanita—in custody now, in the court's holding cells.

  She wouldn't answer about the Camaro.

  They'd got her out of the Sheriff's Department, Whicher cuffed her to the chain in his truck.

  He'd let Butch sit with her a few minutes, out in the lot—hoping she'd finally get to talking, father and daughter alone.

  Two hours of silence had followed, all the way down to Lubbock—Butch a speck in his rear-view on the highway, Juanita wordless beside him in the passenger seat.

  “You ought to head on back to Amarillo,” the marshal says. “Court's not likely to allow her out.”