by A W Hartoin
I parked behind the Malibu and locked Wallace in the cab. “Don’t pee or no burger,” I said through the glass.
Grrr.
“Growl all you want, fuzzball. I’ve got the cash.”
Bark.
“That’s what I thought.” I went up to the front door and rang the bell. When the door opened, the smell of hot tuna hit me like a flu victim’s vomit. Why’d it have to be seafood? I was trying to be good.
Jennifer from the bar with the snub nose and hair freshly-dyed in a shade that Pinterest called pumpkin spice peeked around the insane amount of deadbolt locks. Paranoid much?
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I certainly hope so,” I said. “I’m looking for Cheryl Morris.”
She looked me up and down and I saw the recognition in her eyes. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Why does nobody know Cheryl?
“I think you do. You’ve spent a lot of time talking to her on your cellphone and she’s staying with you.”
Her lips shifted left and then right. “I know her, not that it’s any of your business, you hussy.”
I hadn’t gotten hussy in a while and it made me smile, which was the last thing Jennifer Jerry expected.
“Why are you smiling?”
“Because you can call me anything you want as long as you tell me where Cheryl is.”
“Leave her alone. She’s been through a lot.”
“Oh, really? What’s she been through?” I asked.
Jennifer glared at me. “She’s a widow, if you haven’t heard.”
“That happened in the sixties,” I said.
“Some people have deep feelings. You wouldn’t understand.”
I held my temper but only just. “Maybe not. Has she been through anything more recent?”
“Her best friend died. She’s in mourning,” said Jennifer and she tried to close the door. I stuck my foot in it and wished I had my boots back.
“I have a feeling Cheryl’s never been out of mourning.”
Jennifer stomped on my foot. I bit back a curse and said, “Where is she?”
“I told you she’s in mourning. Leave her alone.”
“And she was so sad, she didn’t bother to go to Judith’s funeral. Some best friend.”
Jennifer stopped grinding her foot into mine. “She didn’t go?”
“Not according to Raquel, Judith’s granddaughter.”
“Well…she was too upset. She feels things deeply.”
“Like her husband’s death?”
“Yes. That was the worst funeral I’ve ever been to. It nearly killed Cheryl to bury Walter.” She shoved the door against my foot, squashing it good. My feet were never going to heal at this rate.
“You make it sound worse than other soldiers’ funerals,” I said.
“It was. Of course it was.”
“Why?”
“Because she needed answers. A woman needs to know.”
“Know what?”
“What killed him?”
“They have a cause of death.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“No, I don’t. Why’s it bullshit?”
Jennifer’s eyes got that deer in the headlights look. “Get out of here or I’m calling the cops.”
“Go ahead. Where’s Cheryl?”
“Out.”
“Tell me where she is.”
“I’ve got a gun,” said Jennifer.
I pushed against the door. “Is it a M1911?”
“It’s a shotgun.” She held up a cellphone. “I’m calling 911.”
“Ask for Trevino. He’s a good guy.”
“You’re a crazy bitch!” she yelled.
“You don’t know the half of it.” I pulled my foot out and she slammed the door so hard one of the panes of glass cracked. Wallace was going crazy in the truck and we were starting to get some attention. Jennifer might call the cops. Which would be fine. She needed to be questioned by someone she couldn’t shoot, but I didn’t want to be delayed so I jumped back in the truck and drove away with no destination in mind. I could try The Rack and Ruin, but why would she be there now? I pulled over and got on the Gold Star Brigade page, looking for events in Sturgis that she might be at. There was just the meet up info. From what I could tell, the widows were more likely to do charity work than party.
The phone rang and I didn’t know the number, but I answered anyway. “Hello.”
“Miss Watts, Trevino. I need you to come over to Sturgis.”
“I’m here. What’s up?”
“I need you to look at a lineup.” He wouldn’t say more, just that he had someone for me to see.
Sturgis was tiny compared to St. Louis. Even I couldn’t get lost following his directions. The Sturgis police station was a pleasingly symmetric building with a super green lawn and skinny windows on the upper floor that made it look like a penitentiary.
I parked and went in with Wallace on her leash.
“You brought the pug,” said Trevino, rising from a desk piled with paperwork and evidence bins. “Why would you do that?”
“She’s supposed to be protecting me.”
“From what?”
“Beats me.”
We looked down and Wallace was trying to capture her curly tail and not coming close.
Bennett came in, freshly starched and almost looking like he did when I first saw him, bright and shiny. “That tiny dog’s a badass?”
I grinned at him. “It comes in all shapes and sizes.”
They chuckled and when I looked close, the cops seemed completely different. I’d never seen it in them before, but I had to guess they were happy.
“Either you solved it or Aaron just fed you,” I said.
“Miss Watts, come this way,” said Bennett.
“Now we’re formal. You’re freaking me out.”
Trevino ushered me down a hall filled with glaring fluorescent bulbs that made everyone look twenty years older and feel it, too.
“Right in here,” said Bennett, opening a heavy metal door. I half-expected an interrogation room, but it was a viewing room with a window on one side. The rest of the room was plain and unadorned. I walked in and asked, “Who am I looking at? Cheryl Morris?”
“Cheryl Morris? Why would you think that?” asked Bennett.
“She wasn’t at the house where she’s staying and the woman there wouldn’t tell me where she is.”
“You don’t need to bother with her anymore,” said Trevino.
I can’t believe it. He skunked me.
“Okay. Who is it?” I asked.
Trevino explained that there would be two lineups of five people each. He wanted me to identify the marines that fought with Grandad and the rest of them on Tuesday night.
“Why? What do you think they did?” I asked.
He didn’t answer and had the men enter, carrying signs. I identified the one trading punches with Grandad immediately. Number three. Trevino was pleased, but I could’ve picked him out even if I didn’t remember him. He was sweating profusely and his hands shook as he held his card.
The second one was much the same, except it could’ve been one or four. I chose one because his eyes were darting all over and he looked like he might make a break for it at any second.
“Excellent,” said Trevino. “We’ll need you to make those formal statements now.”
Bennett and Trevino took me to another room and had me write my statements on every event. When I was done, they thanked me and said I could leave.
“Seriously. What are you arresting them for?” I asked.
Trevino reached into an evidence box and pulled out a photo of a handgun in a sealed bag. “It’s a M1911.”
“You think one of them shot the Millfords?”
“We know one of them shot the Millfords,” said Trevino. “They were in another brawl out at Full Throttle. Mr. Johnson Dales bit security and he had this on him.”
“Ballistics matched it?�
�
“They will,” said Bennett.
“Because why?” I asked. “The M1911 isn’t rare. Did he have a permit?”
Trevino snorted. “Claims he found it lying in the bushes outside his motel yesterday in Lead.”
“Weird.”
“Weird and stupid. It’s his gun. He’s been charged with carrying an unlicensed firearm before,” said Bennett.
“Why would he kill them? What’s the motive?” I got a feeling this wasn’t right. Shooting two people was pretty vicious. Sure, they fought with the guys, but it seemed, I don’t know, all in good fun. That’s certainly how Grandad took it. The Millfords went after Grandad with anger, not this Dale guy.
Trevino shrugged. “We’ll put it together.”
“Are you thinking they did Hal and the rest of it?”
“Dr. Capshaw says that it was a M1911 in all three cases and there are blood traces on the grip.”
I tapped my pen on my statement. “You think he did it all? Seriously?”
“Right weapon. Fired recently. Blood. Fought with the victims. Dale had oxy in his system and the Millfords had sixteen bottles of various painkillers in their tent. Looks good to me,” said Bennett.
“It can’t be,” I said. “Not all of them. Why Hal? Why Steve or Robert?”
“You said yourself it had to do with the war. Who knows?”
I tapped harder. “Grandad didn’t know those guys. They were marines. My guys were army. How old is Dale anyway?”
“Sixty-six.”
“So he’s a lot younger. When was he in Vietnam?” I asked.
Trevino checked a file. “1970. One tour. Saw action in Cambodia.”
“Then they didn’t cross paths. Grandad wasn’t there in 1970.”
He sat down across from me, frowning. “You’re sure?”
“He was almost burned to death in sixty-five and his tours were basically back-to-back once he recovered.”
“Was Dale a pilot or what?” I asked.
“Artillery.”
“That explains arty.”
“Huh?” asked Trevino.
“Robert said Dale and his buddy were just artys.”
“As in they’re not worthy?”
“Kinda.”
“There’s another motive. Scorn.” Bennett’s phone buzzed. “Dr. Capshaw.” He left the room.
“I’m telling you it has something to do with Cheryl Morris.” I told him about Jeanette lying and Cheryl being in contact with both the Millfords and Steve.
“I interviewed Mrs. Morris yesterday,” said Trevino. “I hate to break it to you, but she has an airtight alibi for Steve. She was on a ladies’ ride with a hundred women who will swear to it.”
“What about Hal?” I asked.
“Home asleep. Same with the Millfords.”
Bennett walked back in, sporting a huge grin. “We’ve got him. Blood type matches Hal Reiner. Ballistics match is one hundred percent.”
They high-fived and I kept tapping. “Just one blood type?”
“One is all we need,” said Trevino.
“Except your theory is that he used that gun to kill Steve, too. Where’s his blood?” I asked.
“He washed it off,” said Bennett.
I gave him the stink eye. “Puhlease. He washed off one but not the other.”
“Alright. It’s not perfect, but we could get a conviction on less. This Dale is a whack job. Can’t hold a job. Fights pretty much wherever he goes. His only alibi is his buddy and he’s a bigger loser.”
“Losers that suddenly decide to start murdering people they barely know,” I said.
“Maybe it’s not sudden. We might find Mr. Dale’s got connections to other crimes.”
I checked my phone. “Crap. I’ve got to get out to The Chip. Are we done?”
“We certainly are,” said Trevino with a huge yawn. “You’re still leaving on Sunday?”
“Yes, I’m leaving.”
“Can you maybe get us some tickets for DBD tonight?” asked Bennett.
I said I would, but I wasn’t sure how The Chip worked. I’d driven by and it looked like a giant outdoor stage. Considering the massive storm gathering, we might not be playing at all. Trevino walked me out, his formerly cheerful face sinking into the tired lines I knew so well.
“What?” I asked, starting up the truck.
“The evidence is on Dale.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“But you’re right, it doesn’t add up.”
I smiled at him. “You have a feeling. My dad has feelings. He’s famous for them.”
“So I’ve heard. But feelings aside, we have to go with the evidence,” said Trevino.
“Unless you get new evidence,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
“Unless you get new evidence.”
I laughed. “So it’s on me now.”
“You know those Vets. They’re never going to talk to me.” He slammed the door and gave me a little salute. I did know them, but I didn’t know Cheryl Morris. And she was the one I needed.
I tried to get to The Buffalo Chip on time. I really did. The traffic was insane. I could see the stage, but the road was bumper to bumper. I finally called Mickey and he told me to turn around and go to the service entrance. It took me a half hour to do that and the service entrance was just as blocked. I ended up parking in a random field, grabbing Wallace, and walking in.
Mickey called and said they were going to start without me. He apologized that they couldn’t wait as if I’d be offended. The roar of the crowd was so loud it sounded like a major league baseball game and somebody just hit a homer in the ninth. It made me feel nauseous as I walked past the campground and a field of American flags. There were a few little MIA flags and it struck me that that could’ve been Grandad or any of them. So many were lost and Vets were still dying, Hal, Steve, and the Millfords. It all began when Judith Babinski died in June. June. What a crappy month that had been.
I stared at the flags. Something else had happened in June. Wallace tugged on her leash and wrapped it around a post.
“What else happened in June? Somebody else mentioned June.”
Bark.
I rubbed my head and hit the egg. I gasped in pain and a biker walking past stopped. “Are you okay, honey? You don’t look so good. Maybe you should get to a doctor.”
Doctor. Dr. Watts. Dr. Grenville.
“Thank you so much,” I said.
“For what?”
“You just made me remember something I’d forgotten.”
“You look like you have a head injury. You should sit down,” she said kindly.
“I’m totally fine. I’m going to call my uncle.”
“Is he a doctor?”
“Not even close.”
The biker walked toward the stage area and I called Uncle Morty.
“You got a clue yet?” he groused.
“Yes, I do. I definitely do.”
Uncle Morty just snorted. No faith.
“Can you get an M.E. report super fast? I need the cause of death of Dr. Grenville.”
“Who the hell is that?” he asked gruffly, but I could tell he was interested.
I explained who he was and why I needed to know. He said he’d get what I needed in a half hour and I threatened to go to Spidermonkey. The estimate changed to ten minutes.
The crowd got louder and I could barely make out Mickey’s voice. He said something about Sturgis and the crowd roared. I had to go. I knew that. I’d agreed to go on stage, but I couldn’t quite make myself move. The wind picked up and the heavy clouds filled the sky so completely I had to remind myself that it was only four o’clock, not nine.
A small drop of rain hit my arm and I checked the time. Five minutes left. I gritted my teeth and walked to the performer entrance. The guards recognized both me and Wallace. I put Trevino, Bennett, and Cornell on the list for free tickets and went in. Instead of heading for the stage, I went to a bar as far from the stage as possible,
fighting my way through the crowd that included increasing numbers of scantily-clad women. By then, the wind was whipping and had a slight chill. I couldn’t imagine running around in pasties in good weather, much less with another massive storm coming in. The women didn’t seem to notice. They showed off their paint jobs and enjoyed the leering. I got through without a single pinch or grope. I couldn’t remember that ever happening, especially in a crowd of half-tanked men. I was beginning to appreciate Sturgis in a new way.
“Mercy!” someone yelled.
I glanced over, afraid someone would be flashing me, but it was Janet and the rest of our group around a wooden spindle table. They waved me over and I squeezed through the crowd. “What are you doing out here?” I didn’t want Grandad and Big Mike in the open. Anybody could get to them. “Didn’t you get backstage passes?”
“We wanted to be part of the experience,” said Barney, holding up an empty plastic up. “Want a drink?”
Wade started singing “Sexy Curve” with gusto and I swallowed hard. “I’m going to need one.”
“You look like you’re going to be sick,” said Grandad. “I’ll go with you.”
“Big Mike, too,” I said.
He looked up in surprise. “Alright, but why me?”
“I don’t want you out here.”
Grandad scoffed. “Nothing’s going to happen. It’s all over.”
“Why do you keep saying that?” I asked.
“Because it is.” Grandad started over to me and my phone vibrated. I held it up. “I’ve got to take this.”
Grandad eyed me and was about to protest lest it be about the case, but I quickly said, “It’s Chuck. He’s going to lecture me about going on.”
That amused everyone and Barney said, “I’ll get you a drink to ease the pain.”
“Something that doesn’t taste like alcohol,” I said.
He chuckled, heading off to the bar, and I went around the side of the building to get out of the worst of the noise. It was better in the back with a building between me and DBD, but they were rocking. I swear, the bar swayed a little from the onslaught.