by BJ Mayo
Rose was tallying up receipts and entering them into a ledger in the book room behind the counter. I walked up to the counter, taking note of her from behind. She was in her late forties, I guessed. Her blonde hair probably came from a bottle, as there were dark roots showing. She had on her usual poured-on blue jeans and white shirt with a little, artificial red rose in her hair on the left side clipped with a bobby pin.
When she entered the last ticket, she stood and turned around. “Well hello, officer. I did not know it was you,” as she adjusted her hair. “To what do I owe this pleasure? You buying horse feed?”
“No, ma’am. Just here to visit, if we can find a place to talk in private.”
Old man antennas were up at half-staff as I gingerly turned my head toward the old men, pretending to look at the merchandise. Rose looked into my eyes and quietly said, “Why don’t you come back around 12:30 today?” She cocked her head toward the old men. “They will be gone home by then. I am going to run home and have a sandwich with my husband and will be back then.”
I agreed. I walked over to the water trough floats and picked up one to inspect. Hopefully the old men thought I was asking about a float. Of course, the next thing out of their mouths would be, “He is handling personal business on the city’s time.”
I held it up and asked Rose: “Do you have only brass or something in galvanized? Big difference in price, I would guess.”
“I have both but will have to order the galvanized. Will be about half of the price for that brass one you are holding.”
“Thanks. The Mounted Sheriff’s Posse water trough at the stables is cracked. They asked me to pick one up for them next time I was close to the feed store.” Even though this was somewhat of a stretch of the truth, the old men seemed to be satisfied as they resumed their visit.
When I arrived at 12:30 p.m., there were no other cars at the feed store, with the exception of Rose’s Jeep truck. I parked my service vehicle around back by the hay loading area to not draw too much attention. Our conversation would have to be quick.
When I walked in, Rose was wearing a skirt and different top. The top buttons remained unbuttoned. I could smell perfume I did not smell earlier. “Howdy, Rose,” I said as I walked in the front door.
“Howdy, officer. As I said, they are all gone.”
“Yes, I can see that. Good call. Can we sit?”
“Why, certainly, officer.”
“Why don’t you call me Alfie?”
“Okay, Alfie, do I need to lock the doors for privacy during our conversation?”
“No, ma’am, let’s leave them open.”
“How about you call me Rose instead of ma’am?”
“Okay, Rose, I will do that. If you see someone drive up, I will simply get up and go to the water trough area and you to the front desk. Good enough?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Alfie,” she said as she smiled and saluted me. She had on bright red lipstick. I did not recall her having that on earlier. “Now, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Well, I am sure you read the papers, Rose.”
“Why, yes I do,” she said. “Am I supposed to have read something? Are you going to write me a ticket or something?”
“No, no ticket. Just a few questions.”
I got up and walked over to the horse tack. She carried everything: snaffle bits, curry combs, lead ropes, saddle conchos, latigo, and girth straps. She got up and followed me to the area.
“What are you looking for, Mr. Alfie?”
I took one of the red-and-black pleated lead ropes off the hook. They were all marked twelve feet and had two-inch, spring-loaded, easy-latch brass clips woven into one end. The other end was a single knot.
“You sell many of these?” I asked.
“Well, we sell them on occasion. Probably a few more around rodeo time. I would say about ten a year, something like that. Are you needing one, Mr. Alfie?”
“No, nothing like that. I will have to ask you to keep our conversation quiet, even from your husband.”
She smiled wryly. “I sure will, officer,” as she readjusted the rose in her hair. “Whatever you say.”
“Well, Rose, you may or may not be called as a witness or possibly for a deposition in a pending investigation.”
Rose sat up with eyebrows raised. “What do you mean, an investigation? I’ve done nothing wrong. Did someone tell you something? Is my husband in trouble?”
“Rose, just calm down,” I said. “This has nothing to do with you or your husband.”
“But you just said I might have to sit for a deposition or be called as a witness. Sounds like I am involved in something.”
“Well, a lead rope, just like this one, was used by a young high school girl to hang herself a short time ago at the lake in a cabin.”
“Oh no,” she said as she covered her mouth. “I read about the girl in the paper. I had no idea.”
“Well, I am investigating the case. Do you have any idea who may have purchased one of these ropes in the last, say, twenty-four months or so? The rope we have in evidence has been used little but that does not tell us how old it is. The brass clip is shiny, the rope is not well worn from use. It could have come from anyone’s tack room.”
“Well, I order these from one specific place that custom braids them. No other company makes one just like it,” she said as she took it from my hand. “Each brass clip has the company’s logo engraved in the underside and a stock number. In other words, each one they have ever built has a number. They started with one.” She looked under the brass clip. She took her cheater glasses out of her blouse and put them on the end of her nose. “I can’t see like I used to. Of course there are some things I can’t do as good as I used to. But,” she said, “there are some things I am still doing good, Mr. Alfie,” with a smile as she inspected the buckle. “See,” Rose pointed, “this one is marked number 4605. That means it was the 4,605 lead rope they produced.”
“So what does that do for my question? How do we know who owned the one used in the hanging?”
“Mr. Alfie, just get me the number on the brass clip and I will see what I can do. Those numbers come with the shipment from the company in South Texas that makes them. We should be able to tell what month and year it arrived here. I track those numbers in my daily ledger for inventory purposes. I should be able to see who it was sold to and when. Of course, it could have been given to anybody.”
“I know,” I said. “But like any investigation, it is a starting point. I will get you that number as soon as I get back to the station and stop back by or call you.”
“I will enjoy seeing you,” she said, “why don’t you just stop back by?”
“Well, I may,” I said, “but it will be whatever is in the best interest of time.”
“I hope stopping by to see me is in your best interest of time,” she said.
“Thanks, Rose. I will be in touch,” I said as I turned and walked away.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Alfie,” she said as she saluted me again.
“I really wish you would not do that, ma’am.”
“Yes, sir, Captain,” she said, she saluted me again. “Anything you say, Captain, sir.”
I started my service vehicle and turned on the air conditioner. For some reason, Rose embarrassed me with her flirtations. Or maybe she wasn’t flirting at all. Maybe I just listened to too much of Merle’s salacious gossip on Rose.
No, she was flirting. And the perfume, the wardrobe change. She was flirting.
I did nothing to encourage her, I reasoned, as I retraced our conversations. I absolutely gave her no reason to flirt with me. She saw my wedding band. Come to think of it, I did not see her wedding band on her hand. I knew she was still married to the hardware man.
Maybe Merle was partly right. Maybe I am reading more into the thing than there is. I have done that plenty of times before. Pre-drawn conclusions always reap a bad result. I recognize that perfume, it was the same kind Bea wore.
Maybe I woul
d put cotton up my nose the next time I saw her. If I went in again. Maybe it would be best to do it by phone.
I was still debating Rose’s intentions when I pulled into the station. I nearly ran a red light by not paying attention about two blocks from the station. That would make headlines if someone saw it. Luckily, there was no one coming or behind me. I went straight to the locked evidence room without stopping to talk to anyone. I waved as folks said hi when I passed through.
“How was your vacation, Mr. Alfie?” the new receptionist asked. I just shook my head to affirm it was okay. “Good,” she said, “glad you are back.” She did not even know me.
When I arrived at the evidence room, Mr. Orville Black stared at me with his thick horn rim black glasses. Straight out of the Marine Corps, a twenty-year man, and into the police department. He still wore a high and tight crew cut. All business and no smiling, ever. I do not believe he had any personal friends, in or out of work. All business, all of the time. Completely structured to the ninth degree, and uncompromising. You did not get anything from him without the proper clearance and credentials.
“What can I do for you?” as he unlocked the slide up see through metal window.
“Hello, Orville.”
He did not acknowledge my hello.
“What do you need? Also, you can refer to me as Mr. Black? I do not go by Orville.”
“Why, yes, sir, Mr. Black. I need to see a piece of evidence, please.”
“Name and badge number, please,” he said.
“Mr. Black, it’s me, Detective Alfie Carter. You know me.”
“I said name and badge number, please,” he said, holding out his hand under the slide door.
I pulled out my service badge in my wallet with my driver’s license opposite the badge. “Will this do? I asked.
Mr. Black recorded my name and badge number, driver’s license number, date of expiration, and time and date in his log. He looked carefully at my driver’s license, noting that I should be wearing prescription lenses to drive. “I see you are not wearing glasses, sir, your driver’s license requires prescription lenses.”
I yanked my billfold from him and leaned toward the cage. “My vision is none of your business. I happen to have had eye surgery.”
He did not draw back but only stared at me blankly. “Sir, what piece of evidence do you require to see? You realize you are not allowed to leave my sight while the evidence is in your possession, you will be on camera. Do you understand?”
“Certainly I understand,” I said, “I am a detective.”
“Please sign and date the log-in and initial the section pertaining to handling the evidence and the camera,” he said, pointing to the square box on the form. “Also, you will be issued a prepackaged set of neoprene gloves, to not contaminate any evidence you may touch. You will need to check off and initial that box as well.”
I suppose I should appreciate his matter-of-fact approach, as it would stand up in court. It was his lack of facial expression and general attitude or lack thereof that got under my skin. After I had signed my life away, he opened an electric-operated door and asked me to come in through the door. “Please have a seat in that chair.” He pointed to a metal frame chair at a small, round evidence desk. Same procedure every time. He turned on the light above the chair and the recording camera. “The light is set proportionate to the camera angle,” he said. “Now, case number and the piece of evidence you require?”
“Well, it is the Jenna Couch case, and I require a red-and-black pleated lead rope with a two-inch brass snap on the bottom.”
Mr. Black strode away like he was in military formation, turning down an aisle on his heel. He looked to be marching. A moment later, he returned with the lead rope in a plastic bag.
“Please be careful to wear your gloves at all times, careful to remove the object from the bag. Do not let the object touch any part of your body hair or the floor. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” I said.
“I will also be in here with you at all times. Also, be reminded that the camera is rolling, with audio. You may now proceed.”
I split the wrapper the gloves came in and carefully put each one on.
“Careful not to tear the gloves, please,” he said. “The forensic team looks at each piece of evidence under a microscope.”
“I will try my best,” I said.
After I carefully removed the lead rope out of the bag, I stood to hold it up in a loop. Picking up the brass clip, I looked carefully underneath. The ring was stamped with the company logo and number 3404.
Mr. Black watched every move carefully. The thick glasses made him look like an insect eyeing its prey. I put the lead rope back in the bag and sealed it together, handing it back to him.
“That’s all I needed, sir.”
“Please remain in the chair until I return,” he said. He spun on his heel and marched to the aisle of retrieval. In a moment he returned with a new plastic bag. “Please remove your plastic gloves, sir, and carefully place them in the bag I have here. They will be labeled with today’s date, time, and person, and entered into the evidence file. Do you understand?”
“I am certainly doing my best, Mr. Black,” as I stripped the gloves off my hands, dropping each into the bag.
“If there is nothing further that you require, I will escort you to the door and open it for you, to formally leave the evidence room on camera.”
Mr. Black pushed the button for the electric door to open and I made my exit, glad to be out of there.
“Thank you, Mr. Black,” I said in parting.
He just stared at me with those praying mantis eyes through his black-framed glasses, a steady sentry at the guarded gate. Devoid of human emotion but essential to the task.
“Goodbye, Orville,” I waved as I walked out the door.
I went straight to my office and closed the door. A refreshing moment from the day’s events. I looked at my watch, it was now 4:00 p.m. I had not sat in my chair for five minutes when there was a three-tap knock on my door. Captain Burris’s calling card.
“How do, Alfie? How was your trip?”
“Good, Captain. Could not have been better.”
“How is Bea? She doing okay?”
“Fine, I guess. No complaints, as far as I know.”
“She still down at that place that, what, houses kids or something?”
“Yes, sir, she’s still down there.”
“Well, I guess that is a Good Samaritan thing to do,” he said. “Kids always need a mama. Especially someone like Mrs. Bea.”
“Yes, I guess so,” I replied.
“How is the Couch girl case coming?”
“Well, I am just getting into it good. Interviewed her grandfather but not her parents yet. Working on gathering evidence now.”
“Damn tragedy, that girl’s death,” Captain said. “Why would she hang herself like that?”
“I don’t know, Captain Maybe I can find out.”
“I am sure you will, Bulldog. I am sure you will.” He walked out and closed the door behind him.
I had one more item for the day, and that was to call Rose at the feed store. I looked up the number in the phone book and dialed it slowly, hanging the phone up before allowing it to ring. Do I really want to call her, rather than go to the feed store? For some reason, her charming presence was pulling me in. Maybe it was that “yes, sir, Captain” and saluting stuff.
No, I would call. I redialed the number. The phone rang two times before Rose picked up.
“Rose’s Feed Store.”
“Rose, this is Detective Carter.”
“Well, hello, Captain, you coming down soon?”
“Well, it has been a long day and probably not.”
“I can stay past quitting time if you need me to, Captain.”
“Well, I have a number for you on the lead rope we were talking about. Can I give it to you over the phone?”
“Well, it would be better in person, Captain, but if yo
u must, I will take it over the phone,” she replied. “Let me get my pen and my cheaters out of my shirt.”
My face blushed at her inferences and tone. What could interest her in me, a married detective?
“Okay, Captain, I am ready,” she laughed, “sometimes those glasses just get stuck in there. What is that number?”
“Well, it is 3404,” I said.
“3404,” she repeated. “Okay, Captain, I have it written down. I will go to work on it. Give me at least a day before you come by. You will be coming by, won’t you, sir?”
“Rose, please do not call me sir. I guess I could come by day after tomorrow for a few minutes. How about 3:00 in the afternoon, does that work for you?”
“You bet, Captain, sir. I will be here with bells on. Do you drink coffee in the afternoon, Captain? I can have a pot on when you get here and we can sit and drink a cup while we visit.”
“I appreciate it, Rose, but probably not. I am not an afternoon coffee drinker.”
“No problem, Captain, I will just have some fresh tea.”
“See you then, bye-bye.”
I was going to have to pay particular attention to all of my dealings with Mrs. Rose. It seemed that with the least bit of encouragement things might go off the rails quickly for both of us. Maybe Merle was warmer to the truth than I thought.
I made my way home with Mrs. Rose and her comments on my mind. Bea had long been home from work at the orphanage. I walked in the door and found her in the den facing the backyard on her reading bench. Her beautiful hair, usually tucked neatly in a bun, was flowing freely on her shoulders. The west sun sent rays through the tilted blinds that reflected off her. Her hair and skin glowed in the rays of sunlight.
I stood at the entrance of the den for a few moments undetected. Maybe both of our lives could have been different, but I don’t know how, with our circumstances. She did her thing and I did mine. Never the twain will intercept. We don’t seem to communicate much, other that the morning peck on the cheek, courtesy talk, and the occasional sexual encounter. It was always short and probably unfulfilling for both of us. Still, she was beautiful in the sunlight.