A Welcome Murder

by Robin Yocum

  “What if I don’t get out of jail?”

  “Then you won’t need the money.”

  The preacher cackled. I shook my head. “I don’t like that. Besides, you couldn’t find it without me.”

  “You see, General, I told you he wasn’t committed to the cause,” the preacher said. “He was going to take the money and run.”

  “This is very disturbing, Colonel, and after I put so much trust in you. I feel the reverend is right. Your lack of faith in our cause is troubling.”

  “General, I think I’m insulted that you would say such a thing,” I said, stalling for a way out. “I’m as committed to the cause as ever. I can’t believe you would question my commitment.” In reality, I was thinking that with a five-minute head start and a half-tank of gas I would be a vapor trail.

  “You say you’re committed, yet you refuse to tell me where you’ve hidden the money,” the general said.

  “I’m not refusing; I can’t. I buried it, and you’d never find it. It’s probably going to take me a while to find once I get back up there.”

  “Where is it?”

  “It’s up on Mount Washington. That’s a section of Pittsburgh. It’s in a wooded area, not too far from the incline. It’s buried deep, though. It’s near a culvert. And if you stand where I buried it, you can see a house with green shutters. Well, it had green shutters eight years ago.”

  The general’s brow bulged and the little preacher said, “Horseshit.”

  “Nice language, Reverend,” I said.

  The frown slowly disappeared from the general’s face, and a smile creased his lips. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll wait. When you get out, we’ll all go together.”

  “General, I can’t wait to serve the Aryan Republic of New Germania.”

  They left, and I dropped back to my cot, draping my right arm over my eyes to block out the light. Then I uttered a phrase that will never again cross my lips. I said, “Mother of Christ, my life can’t possibly get any more screwed up.”

  “Johnny. Johnny, get up,” Dena Marie said in a tone not much above a whisper.

  I lifted my arm, blinked her into focus, and asked, “Dena Marie, what in hell are you doing here?”

  She had both hands wrapped around the bars of my cell. “Come over here. We need to talk.”

  “Oh-oh, what do we have here, folks? It looks like the former homecoming queen has stopped by to visit her old flame, Johnny Earl.” Fritz was up and broadcasting. “You’ve got to ask yourself this question, sports fans. Does her husband know she’s here?”

  Dena Marie whirled and started marching toward Fritz’s cell, her right index finger counting down with each step. “I am in no mood for your bullshit, Fritz,” she said. “So sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.” He did, and she returned to my cell. I was up and standing near the bars. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be all right. I’m going to get you out of here.”

  “How, pray tell?”

  “Because I’m going to get Smoochie arrested for Rayce’s murder.”

  “Smoochie? Your husband, Smoochie?” I laughed. “Dena Marie, you don’t expect me to believe that Smoochie killed Rayce, do you?”

  “He’s all but confessed. They’re going to interrogate him again tonight. He’ll crack and spill his guts.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because I don’t want to see you in jail.”

  “What’s the real reason?”

  She pressed her forehead closer into the open space of the bars and licked her lips, which I hate to admit caused a tingle in my loins. “He’ll be out of the way.”

  Although I knew full well what she meant, I still felt compelled to ask, “Out of the way for what, Dena Marie? Please don’t tell me that you’re still harboring hopes that you and I will be together.”

  “That’s the way it was meant to be, Johnny. You and me, together forever.”

  “Dena Marie, go home.”

  “Don’t admit to anything,” she said.

  “I don’t have anything to admit to.”

  She winked and gave me the slightest of nods. “Okay,” she whispered.

  “I don’t, goddammit.”

  She pressed the index and middle finger on her right hand to her pouty lips and gently blew. “Until we meet again, my love.”

  “I am not your love,” I said in a strained whisper.

  She left, and I wanted to vomit. I wasn’t sure which was worse: having a massive white supremacist waiting to take my money and whisk me off to marry multiple wives of his arranging in God-knows-where, or having Dena Marie attempting to save me from the death penalty. Frankly, at this point in the morning, a trip to the electric chair didn’t seem like a bad option.

  “Hey, Mr. Earl.” I looked up. It was Fritz, standing at the front of his cell, his hands in his front pockets. It was the only time in my life that I could remember him speaking in a normal voice and not pretending to broadcast the scene around him. “If I get out of here and they don’t send me to the loony bin out in Columbus, can I go with you?”

  “Go with me where?”

  “To that New Germania place.”

  “Fritz, I . . .” I paused and nodded. “Yeah. Sure, you can go. Why not?”

  I eased myself back onto the cot, now thoroughly exhausted. I hadn’t closed my eyes for five minutes when I heard footsteps and the jangle of keys. I opened my eyes as the jailer, Reed Nevel, was opening the door to my cell. Deputy Majowski was leaning against the side of the door. “Up and at ’em, sunshine,” he said. “The sheriff wants to talk to you.”

  “About goddamn time,” I said.

  “Stick out your arms,” he said, pulling his handcuffs off his belt.

  “I’m not under arrest. Why do I need cuffs?”

  “Standard jail procedures.”

  Another man might have been humiliated. At that point in my life, I was beyond that. Majowski walked me up the steps, a thick hand wrapped around my left triceps. “Is that really necessary?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “Smells like the steel mill in here,” I said when we reached the sheriff’s office. “What’s burning?”

  “It’s my clothes,” Fran said, getting up from behind his desk and walking to a conference table in the corner of the room. He sat at the head of the table and gestured for me to sit on his left. “Rayce Daubner’s house burned down last night. I’ve been out there all morning.”

  “His house burned? I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Why would you be sorry about that?” Majowski asked.

  “Okay, I’m not sorry it burned. I’m just sorry that Rayce wasn’t still alive to die a fiery, painful death, is all.”

  Fran pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just as a note of reference, it would be good if you didn’t say things like that during a police interrogation. It doesn’t help us eliminate you as a suspect. Where were you Thursday night?”

  “Thursday night?” I repeated, thoughtfully massaging my chin. “Let’s see. Thursday night. Oh, yeah, I was sitting at home, watching television, trying not to violate my parole.”

  “Did you kill Rayce Daubner?”

  “Why are you asking me that?”

  “That’s why we’re here. We’re investigating a murder, remember?”

  “I know that, Fran, but I thought you already knew who killed Rayce.” He frowned. Try as I might, I couldn’t not smile. “I heard Smoochie Xenakis killed him.”

  “You’ve been talking to Dena Marie, I presume?”

  “She stopped by for a little chat.”

  “Let me ask you again. Did you kill Rayce Daubner?”

  “Oh, how I wish that I had.”

  “But you didn’t, right?”

  “At the very least, I would have liked to have watched. It wouldn’t have been as satisfying as actually wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing his eyeballs out of their sockets, but it wouldn’t have been bad.”

  “You’re not answering my question.”

  “If
you do find out who killed that loathsome bastard, let me know, because I’ll give him a big kiss—right on the lips.”

  “Johnny, you don’t seem too upset over this.”

  “Imagine that. The guy who set me up so that I spent seven years of my life in prison is found shot to death, and you’re surprised that I’m not upset.”

  Fran turned to Majowski and asked, “Do you have any questions for our friend?” Majowski slowly shook his head. Fran turned back to me and said, “Don’t be leaving town. I might have follow-up questions.”

  I swallowed. The reality of my situation came into clear focus. Somewhere, probably just outside the jail, a hulking white supremacist was waiting for me. “You’re not cutting me loose, are you?”

  “Yeah, you’re free to go.”

  Considering my prospects, I was suddenly very content being an incarcerated murder suspect. “I can’t leave.”

  “What do you mean, you can’t leave?”

  “I can’t go out there. There are people waiting for me that I don’t want to see.”

  “Who?”

  “Some guys from prison who want to have a little reunion.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but that’s not my problem.” He turned to Majowski. “Cut him loose.”

  “No, wait. Maybe you should keep me locked up for a couple more days until you’ve verified my alibi.”

  “Are you nuts? I don’t think you did it anyway. I just brought you in here to cover my ass when the feds show up.”

  “Aren’t you worried that someone might say you let me go out of favoritism because we’re old friends?”

  Fran yawned as he stood, keeping his knuckles pressed to the corners of the glass-topped table. He said, “Sorry, pal, but I’ve got nothing to hold you on. Get out of here.”

  I can’t say that I gave my next move a lot of thought, because if I had, I wouldn’t have done it. But in that instant, it seemed like a good idea. My hands were cuffed, so I stood, reared back, and gave Francis the most vicious headbutt I could muster. It caught him square on the nose. Blood splattered all over his face as he flew back, landing on his back and yelping like a little girl. I hit him so hard it made me a little woozy. “There, now you’ve got something to hold me on. You’re a lousy sheriff, and you were an even worse quarterback. The worst I’ve ever seen. If it hadn’t been for me, you would have been lucky to make junior varsity.” Majowski was already up; he locked his arms around me and pinned me against the wall. I danced around a little bit, but I didn’t make any serious attempt to get loose. Fran crawled to his knees and cupped his hands over the gnarled cartilage. “It’s a good thing you had me cuffed, or I would have whipped the shit out of you, Roberson.”

  “Goddamn you, Johnny,” he moaned, blood running through this fingers. Then, to Majowski: “Lock his ass up.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SHERIFF FRANCIS ROBERSON

  The one good thing about getting head-butted in the nose was that it made me quit thinking about my headache, which paled in comparison to the throbbing pain emanating from the middle of my face. Johnny knows I’m a bleeder. In high school, I would sneeze and get a nosebleed. Every time I bumped my nose, it would bleed. I ruined a dozen shirts a year. And that son of a bitch rammed his forehead square in the middle of my face. I hope he goes back to prison.

  Doc Baughman, our jailhouse physician, stopped by and chuckled as I told him the story. He set a piece of tape gently over the bridge of my nose, which extended out in comic proportions beneath a pair of blackening eyes. “We won’t be able to do anything about it until the swelling goes down,” Doc said. “Might be an improvement, anyway.”

  I ignored his attempt at humor. I was thinking about handcuffing Johnny and letting Toots put the boots to him.

  Doc was finishing up when Allison appeared in the doorway. “Phone on line one.”

  “Who is it?”

  She had disappeared before I finished the question. She was still steamed about Dena Marie’s surprise attack that morning. I had no control over the visit, but given my recent dalliance with the former homecoming queen, I can’t say that I blame her. “Well, let’s see what fresh hell this will bring.” I pushed the flashing button on my phone. “Sheriff Roberson.”

  “Sheriff, Marshall Hood over at the Wheeling Intelligencer.”

  Marshall was the bureau chief for the Intelligencer’s Steubenville bureau. He was a very good reporter.

  “Hi, Marshall. Did you get all the information you needed on the fire?”

  “Everything but who or what caused it.”

  “That’s still the million-dollar question.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a couple people in mind.”

  “Anyone you’d care to name?”

  I laughed. We both knew the answer to that question. “No, I don’t believe I would. If we charge someone, you’ll be the first person I call. Take it easy, Marshall.”

  “Wait! That’s not the reason I’m calling.” I hated hearing that. “I was told that you’ve questioned two suspects in Rayce Daubner’s murder.”

  “Marshall, you know I can’t comment on suspects in an ongoing investigation.”

  “I realize that, but I wanted to give you a chance to comment. I’m writing a story for Monday morning’s paper that says that you questioned Matthew Vincent Xenakis and Johnny Earl in connection with the murder. I also heard that Mr. Earl spent the night in your jail on suspicion of murder and is now being held on an assault charge for striking you earlier today.”

  I could feel the heat creeping up around my ears. “Who told you that?”

  “Come on, Sheriff, you know me better than that. I’m not going to reveal my source, but I can tell you that it’s extremely reliable.”

  “I can’t comment.”

  “Understood, but I’m still running with the story. I was told that Daubner assaulted Xenakis a while back—busted him up pretty good. There’s motive. Also, I was told that Daubner was the guy who set up Earl on the drug bust that sent him to prison. Excellent motive, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I wouldn’t say anything. Do you have any more questions that I might actually comment on?”

  “Sheriff, that FBI training to never comment on anything is not helping you as an Ohio sheriff.”

  I hung up and yelled, “Goddammit!” which made my nose hurt even worse. I stormed out into the hall. Toots was standing in front of Allison’s desk; I interrupted their conversation. She looked away and began brushing her hair behind her ears the way she did when she was nervous. “I just got off the phone with Marshall Hood at the Intelligencer. He knows we questioned Johnny and Smoochie; he knew Daubner had kicked the shit out of Smoochie; he even knew Johnny gave me a headbutt to the nose. How in the hell did he find out?” I focused in on Allison and said, “You’re looking awful damn guilty about something.”

  “Excuse me?” she said. “You have the nerve to say that I look guilty?” Red splotches were popping up on her neck. I didn’t know if they were from nerves or anger, but I knew I had crossed the line. She had the enameled compact mirror I had given her for her birthday in her hand and appeared ready to launch it at me. “You are treading on such thin ice it’s unbelievable.”

  “Someone called him!” I yelled, looking at Toots.

  “I certainly hope that you don’t think it was me,” he said.

  I knew it wasn’t Toots, but no one was above suspicion. “Then who the hell was it?”

  Toots shrugged. “Fairbanks? He had motive after this morning.”

  I shook my head. “He couldn’t have known about my nose.” Toots grinned. “What?”

  “Sorry to tell you this, Sheriff, but it’s all over Steubenville. I went down to the diner for lunch, and everyone at the counter was already talking about it.”

  “Jesus Christ! This place is an information sieve.”

  “It’s no big deal, boss. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”

  �
�I don’t need this, Toots. Christ, I want to run for Congress. I don’t need this kind of ink.”

  “You said just the other night that any interview with the press was a public-relations opportunity.”

  “This isn’t what I meant. I was talking about judging the pie contest at the fair or teaching bicycle safety at the elementary school, not answering questions about a murdered federal informant and getting whacked in the nose by a suspect in the case, who was supposed to be a friend of mine, and who called me a lousy quarterback.”

  “He said you were a lousy sheriff. He said you were a worse quarterback.”

  My teeth sounded like a grinding transmission in my head. “Are you done?”

  Toots laughed. “Okay, just so we’re clear, you’re saying this isn’t a public-relations opportunity?”

  “It’s a fuckin’ nightmare, that’s what it is! If I find the cocksucker who called that reporter, I swear to Jesus, I’ll string him up by his balls.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ALLISON ROBERSON

  First of all, I have no balls by which he could string me up. And, second, I haven’t been a cocksucker since I learned of his tryst with Dena Marie Xenakis. From the good sheriff’s perspective, it has been a particularly agonizing punishment, as he is very fond of oral sex, and I happen to be an exquisite provider. But he should have thought of that before he slithered between the sheets with that little tramp.

  Yes, I called the reporter. That nitwit husband of mine needs the attention. I swear to Jesus I don’t know how someone could be so smart and so naive at the same time. This is a public-relations opportunity. If he seriously wants to make a run for Congress, then he needs this kind of attention. Judging pie contests at the fair? Give me a break. This is an opportunity to demonstrate that he’s a strong lawman.

  My call to the reporter is causing nine shades of hell at the department, and Frannie is probably so mad that boiling mounds of white spittle are collecting in the corners of his mouth. He’s no doubt roaming the halls, questioning and accusing all who cross his path. I don’t feel the least bit guilty. Frannie’s the one who backed me into this corner.