Deep Kill (The Micah Dunn Mysteries)

by Malcolm Shuman

  “He’s a street fighter. He sees this as a political thing.”

  “It’s political that a man who worked all his life is going to lose his business and his good name because of something he doesn’t know anything about?”

  She stiffened in her chair. “Well, what about Arthur Augustine? What did he do, except be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Your friend is alive, at least. That’s more than anybody can say for Arthur Augustine.”

  I came forward, surprised. “Sandy, are you saying you’ve made up your mind already that our client did it?”

  “I’m saying that just because he’s our client doesn’t make him, if you’ll pardon the expression, lily white.” Her voice dropped as she rose to lean over my desk. “And just because Arthur Augustine was black doesn’t make him the instigator of all this.”

  Our eyes held, and I felt my heart racing. We’d never talked about race much before, and now I realized that maybe we should have.

  “It sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” I said quietly. “But I hope you don’t think anything I’ve been doing was racially motivated.”

  She laughed. “Micah, you’re from Charleston. You went to the naval academy. You’re a good man, but how could you get away from it?”

  “I don’t know,” I owned. “How can you? How can any of us?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, you’re right.” She reached out and put her hand over mine. “Look, Micah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you. Everybody’s got some buttons that nobody should push. I thought mine were taped over, but I guess maybe they aren’t.”

  “I didn’t mean to push them.”

  “You didn’t, Condon did. There’s just enough truth in it to set me off. I grew up in these streets. My best friend died of an overdose when she was sixteen. Her mother ended up taking care of her two little girls. My own brother spent three years at Angola, doing the hardest kind of time they got in this state. I never met my father. When I see Arthur Augustine, I see myself. Maybe if he’d of lived another year, another month, another week even, he’d have met somebody—a teacher, a minister, even a cop—who’d have made him the one out of all those kids he ran with to make something of his life. Now …” She shook her head. “Just one more little black kid that didn’t make it.”

  “Yeah.” I rubbed my eyes. “Hell, I don’t know, Sandy. Maybe Cal is guilty. But I have to check all the angles. I have to give him his best shot.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “And I know you well enough to know you’ll do your best, and the hell with Condon. I guess I was just saying you can see it from different sides, and I didn’t want to see the victim turned into the villain when he can’t fight back.”

  I squeezed her hand. “I don’t want that either. And if Cal Autry’s guilty, I won’t cover it up. You have my promise on that.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” she said. “I don’t know if it’ll be good enough for Condon. He’s a natural force, Micah. The man’s got charisma. If I wasn’t so damn independent, I could almost—”

  The ringing telephone interrupted her. I picked it up and heard a nasal voice that it took me a second to identify as male.

  “Micah Dunn?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Abe Steiner with Big O Investigations in Oklahoma City. I wanted to give you what I have on your subject, Calvin Autry, Jr. Of course, I’ll write all this up, but my secretary quit and I thought you’d rather hear it first.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said.

  “Part of the service. Now let’s see.” I heard him riffling pages. “Yeah. Well, born Pauls Valley, 1932. Father was a farmer who lost the place in the Depression. Kept the family alive by odd jobs. Parents both dead. An older brother, Elton, in California; an older sister, Minnie, in Pauls Valley. I talked to her. She said Calvin was alway mechanical-minded. She also said he had problems with the other boys when he was little; wouldn’t go into it further. Calvin didn’t date in high school. Dropped out of high school and left home when he was fifteen. Didn’t come back again for nearly fifteen years, when he brought his wife, Marie, with him, for a visit.”

  “That it?”

  “Well, you might be interested in why he left town.”

  “Why?”

  His chuckle told me he was about to flourish his pièce de résistance. “He and another kid got into an argument, and he pulled a gun. Told the other boy he’d fill him full of holes if he ever saw him again.” He paused to let the import sink in.

  “Any idea what they were arguing about?”

  “The book, as they say, closes on that chapter.” He cleared his throat.

  “What did his sister say about Marie?”

  “Who? Oh, you mean Cal’s old lady. Well, not much. Just said he took up with some little floozie looked no better than she should be.”

  I thought for a moment. “How long did this take?”

  “Not long. Better part of a day. Write it up’ll be a couple of hours.”

  “Okay, then I’d like for you to scratch around and see if you can find out more about the gun incident. Check with some of the men he went to high school with; there must be some of them still around. I’d like to know what the friction was about.”

  “Of course. I should be able to have that by tomorrow.”

  “That’ll be fine. Oh, and one other thing.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dunn?”

  “See if there’s anybody he’s still close to. And keep your eyes open: Autry’s spooked, and he may show up there.”

  “Ah, so it suddenly becomes a bail case.”

  “Not yet. He hasn’t been arrested. But he will be when he’s found.”

  “I can’t protect a fugitive, Mr. Dunn. You have to understand that.”

  “I don’t expect you to, Mr. Steiner. Just get back to me, whatever happens—as soon as it happens.”

  “Will do. Good-bye, Mr. Dunn.”

  I replaced the receiver.

  “Trouble?” Sandy asked.

  “I don’t know.” I filled her in on Steiner’s report. “There’re lots of reasons a boy might not get along with his classmates. The problem is, every damn time I look hard at Cal something else pops up. And yet I’ve known the man for ten years.”

  “Maybe,” she said softly, “you just think you know him.”

  “That,” I said, “is what bothers me.”

  She got up. “What do you want me to do now?”

  I gave her Guidry’s name and address. “Check this guy out and see if it looks like he could have any motive for wanting Autry out of the way. See if there’s any possible connection with the Augustine boy. The man’s a lawyer; has he represented anybody in that family? There’s a lot you may not be able to find, but do your best. I’ve got to admit, it’s a long shot, so don’t spend more time than your gut tells you to.”

  “My gut,” she said with a smirk: “Is that where we’re at?”

  “Isn’t that where we’re always at?” I asked. “Let me know what you turn up.”

  “Sho’ nuff.” She turned and left, and I sat back down heavily in my chair. It was such a long shot it amounted only to covering the bases.

  I heaved myself up and went into the kitchen for a soft drink and that was why I didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs. I’d taken my seat again and was staring moodily at the model yacht on my desk when the door burst open.

  Calvin Autry stood swaying before me.

  Eight

  Except that it wasn’t Calvin Autry, I saw, as the man moved into the light from my open window: it was Calvin Autry the way he might have looked a quarter century ago, thin, with more hair, but still muscular, with an outthrust jaw.

  “You’re Micah Dunn,” the man said.

  “I am,” I said. “And you’re …?”

  “Melville Autry. Calvin Autry’s my father.”

  “Come in, Mr. Autry.” I came around the desk and offered him my hand.

  His hand was wet with perspiration, and as he sat down he
reached into his jeans for a bandana and wiped his face.

  “Tell you the truth, Mr. Dunn, I’m scared shitless.”

  “Just take it easy. It’ll be okay,” I said, reflecting on the fact that he was in the same chair where his father had sat just two days ago. “Can I get you a Coke, or a beer?”

  “No thanks,” he said, removing a little tin from his shirt pocket and carefully packing some snuff between his upper lip and his gum. Then he took out a small jar and set it on the floor. “I got to dip when I’m nervous,” he explained.

  “Have you heard from your father?”

  His eyes darted away. “Is he in as much trouble as they say?” he asked.

  “Every hour he stays out there, the trouble gets worse. He’ll do himself a favor if he comes on in.”

  “Yeah. But he ain’t got no trust of the law, Mr. Dunn. And hell, I don’t either. I seen the cops here beat people black and blue at Mardi Gras. And some of them nigger cops’d love to get hold of an Okie like the old man. Especially with what they’re sayin’ he did.”

  “If he surrenders I’ll see nothing happens to him. The danger’s in his being spotted out there. You can’t expect a cop to ask too many questions when they think they’re up against a murderer.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded, bending over to spit into the little jar. “There’s that. But, Mr. Dunn, he ain’t nowhere they gonna find him till he wants to be found.”

  “Hiding a fugitive’s a felony,” I said.

  “Christ, he’s my father. They can do what they want.”

  I nodded reluctantly. “I understand. Then what is it I can do for you, Melville?”

  He hunched his shoulders uncomfortably. “I just wanted to know have you found anything that might help get him off?”

  “Is that what he sent you to ask?”

  “Don’t matter.”

  “No. I guess not. And the answer is, not yet. But I’m still looking. But there’s something I need you to ask your father for me.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did he have any wire at home, in his garage? Baling wire, say?”

  Melville Autry frowned. “Why?”

  “Just ask him.”

  “Okay.” He got up slowly, picking up his little jar.

  “Mr. Dunn, you got to do something. He never done nothing. Him and me, we’ve had words, sure; once’t I come close to clobbering him, he was so stubborn. But he’s my old man. And he’s been a good one, too. He’s been lonely since Ma left, but he wouldn’t do nothing like this.”

  I nodded and walked with him to the door. “Any idea why your mother left, Melville?”

  “No. Except her and Pop had a lot of problems. Ma, she always wanted more than he could give. He tried, but sometimes I used to hear ’em arguing, and once, especially, when I was little, I heard her threaten to leave, and he yelled back at her, ‘Go ahead, leave, see if I can’t raise this boy as good without you as with you.’ And that kinda quieted her down.” He shrugged. “I just guess when I got all growed up she figured, what was the harm now.”

  “You’ve never tried to find her?”

  “Where would I look? Pop said she went to California. He got one postcard and that was all. He said he figured she didn’t want to be found, and he said that was okay by him. Wasn’t nothing we could do. If I knew where she was at, I reckon I’d try to see her, but I don’t know where to start.”

  “Was there anything else they used to argue about? Anything you can remember?”

  He spat into the jar again. “Just money. He said she used to spend too much of it.”

  “Did he ever accuse her of being with other men?”

  “I never heard that, but I wouldn’t be surprised. I seen her once’t when I was little, with some slick-dressed fellow. She said he was a radio announcer.”

  “And your father? Were there other women?”

  “I never asked him.” His face went red, like he’d already said too much, and I went and put a hand on his shoulder. After a moment he rose uncomfortably, and I guided him out.

  He picked his way down the stairs with a slightly bowlegged gait and veered away from the entrance to the voodoo shop like a branded calf. I thought of following, but dissuaded myself: Cal was safe where he was, and as long as I didn’t find him I wouldn’t be obstructing justice. My time could be better spent in trying to prove him innocent. Or guilty.

  I went over what I knew: Cal Autry claimed there were four people who had reason to hurt him, but so far the people he suspected seemed too self-absorbed to go out of their way just to get him in trouble. Add the murder of the boy and it seemed even more unlikely that Frazier, Villiere, or Guidry had anything to do with it, unless of course a mean joke had gone sour and the boy had been killed to prevent exposure. But what if it had nothing to do with Calvin? What if somebody was setting him up because they needed a stooge and he was available? It was an ugly thought, as ugly as the first possibility, and I played with it for a while, trying to think of possible scenarios.

  And I kept coming back to the clown, and the kids he took in off the streets, and the wire in his garage. I kept remembering his secret, something hidden that he wouldn’t mention, and the problems he’d had with boys his own age, when he was a kid. And I remembered the van.

  Damn it, it all held together. And I didn’t want it to.

  I called O’Rourke and told him about Abe Steiner’s report from Oklahoma.

  “You think that business about friction with the other boys means something?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “Look, what do you know about a Reverend Gabriel Condon of the Church of the Deliverance?”

  “Gabe?” O’Rourke laughed. “We did some sit-ins together in the old days. He’s from Jamaica, you know. He’s younger than I am, but you’d never know it from the way he talked: all assurance, all certainty. Somewhere between Louis Farrakhan and Jesse Jackson is where I’d put him. He’s a big noise in the black community. I think he’d like to get on the city council.”

  I told him about the money and he laughed.

  “That’s vintage Gabe. He’s ambitious as hell and goes after what he wants. You just got in his way.”

  “Evidently. I didn’t know he was such a big friend of yours.”

  “Haven’t seen him for a couple of years, but last time I did he was getting into a Continental. I introduced myself and asked him if he remembered me, and all he said was, ‘Bless you, sir.’ Then he leaned close and said, ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down, bro.’ And winked.”

  “A man of principle,” I said.

  “We’ve all changed,” O’Rourke sighed.

  I let him go and sat considering my options. I’d run out of leads. If somebody was framing Cal, the only hope I had was to stir things up. I decided to pay a visit to the Augustine household.

  It was a neighborhood just off Esplanade, where teenaged boys eyed me suspiciously from street corners, unsure whether I was the law or looking to buy drugs. The house itself was easy to locate, a shotgun with cars in front. Some women in Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes were talking on the front porch and on the sidewalk. A wake. I was going to stand out like a one-legged man on a tightrope. Maybe, I thought, it wasn’t a bad simile. Because that was the idea. But I hated it. Crashing a wake isn’t my idea of fun, and getting my head knocked in as part of the bargain is an even less fulfilling proposition.

  I parked near the corner and felt eyes on my back all the way up the sidewalk. I was going to take abuse, and I was already trying to steady myself. I just hoped somebody would be watching and it would shake them. It was the only hand I had to play.

  Faces turned to look at me as I started up the walk. Bodies parted reluctantly. From inside I heard the sound of moaning, rising to a wail and then dying down again.

  As I started up the rickety steps a man came through the sagging doorway. Maybe fifty, he was still powerful, despite the gray in his mustache. He wore a coat, open at the neck, and a checked shirt underneath.
>
  “What you want?” he asked.

  “My name is Dunn,” I said. “I’m a private investigator representing Calvin Autry. Are you Taylor Augustine?”

  “I am. We’re having a wake here, mister. Don’t you see that? My nephew was murdered by that man. We got no time for you.”

  I took a deep breath and said a silent prayer. “I have reason to think Calvin Autry is innocent. Before this goes any further, I have to do my best to see there’s no miscarriage of justice.”

  The man advanced on me, his big fist balled. “Man, you better get outta here while you can still walk.”

  I raised my hand, palm outward. “I don’t mean any disrespect,” I told him. “But investigating things is my job.”

  By now all the people gathered were staring at us, women with frowns, children half hidden behind their mothers’ skirts. The screen door opened and a woman emerged. Tears streaked her face, and her eyes were glazed over.

  “Who this man?” she demanded. “Who this come to make trouble over my dead baby?”

  “Miss Augustine,” I said. “I’m very sorry about your son.”

  “Sorry? You say sorry?” Hands tried to pull her back but she shook them off. “You want to see sorry? I’ll show you sorry.”

  Taylor Augustine was halfway down the steps, but the woman’s hand reached out to catch him.

  “No. I want him to see. He come here, let him see. Let him see what sorry all about.”

  “Miss Augustine,” I began, but before I could finish hands were on me, shoving me forward, up the steps, across the porch and through the doorway.

  Shocked faces glared hatred at me from the sides of the room, but I didn’t have a chance to react, because I was being pushed forward, toward the rear.

  “That’s sorry,” the Augustine woman cried, pointing at the gold-framed photograph of her son.

  For the first and last time I saw Arthur Augustine. He had been a nice-looking boy, but, I reminded myself, everybody smiles for school portraits. His hair was combed, his smile real, and there was nothing to show he hadn’t been a normal, happy boy for his age.

  In ten years, I thought, Arthur Augustine might have ended up in the state prison, or dead of an overdose. Or he might have been on the way to stardom as a musician, a quarterback, or a heart surgeon. The odds had been against him, of course. But he’d deserved a chance to defeat the odds, just as Sandy had.