Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 20 - Compound Murder

by Bill Crider

  “It’s not going to do much for this fella, either,” Rhodes said, indicating the dead man.

  The blood in Wellington’s hair had already attracted a few buzzing flies. An ant crawled across the dead man’s cheek and up on his nose.

  “Of course not for him,” Dean King said. She wasn’t looking at the body. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  The dean was a statuesque woman a bit past middle age with very black hair stiff with hair spray. Rhodes couldn’t see a single touch of gray. He wondered if the dean was a customer at the Beauty Shack.

  “Benton told me that his name was Wellington.”

  “Yes,” the dean said. “That’s correct. Earl Wellington. He taught English.” The dean’s mouth twisted into a grimace. “It’s always the English teachers.”

  “You’ve had other English teachers who were killed?”

  “Killed? You mean it wasn’t an accident? Or a heart attack?”

  “Could be,” Rhodes said, “but I don’t think so. I think someone killed him. Maybe by accident, but someone killed him just the same.”

  “Oh, my God. This will really be a black eye for us.” The dean put a hand to her stiff hair and gave it a little push. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, either. I’m somewhat discombobulated. I meant that we often seem to have problems with our English teachers.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “Nothing serious. Academic problems.”

  That didn’t really explain anything, but Rhodes could find out more later if he needed to.

  “Was Wellington full-time?” he asked.

  “Yes. We have only two full-timers, and he was one of them. I hope he had his grades up to date. I hope I can find someone to replace him this late in the semester.”

  She seemed a lot more concerned about her own problems than about Wellington, but Rhodes supposed that was only natural. Wellington didn’t have problems, not anymore.

  “I’ll need to see about grief counseling,” the dean continued, but she wasn’t talking to Rhodes. She was just thinking out loud. “The morning classes will be a mess, but we’ll have to try to carry on.”

  Rhodes interrupted her. “I’ll have more questions for you, but right now you need to go on back in the building. I’ll come by your office when I finish here. Don’t let anyone into Wellington’s office, and don’t go in yourself. If it’s open, close the door and lock it.”

  The dean looked at him vacantly but said she’d take care of things. Then she turned and left.

  Seepy Benton had gotten everyone into the building, and he came over to talk to Rhodes.

  “You want me to work the scene?” he asked.

  Benton wore a straw cowboy hat, jeans, running shoes, and a blue cotton shirt. His mostly gray beard was neatly trimmed. Even with the beard, he didn’t look like Rhodes’s idea of a college teacher, but then Rhodes hadn’t been to school in a long time.

  “I don’t want you to work the scene,” Rhodes said. “I want you to wait in your office until I come by and talk to you.”

  “I could handle the scene,” Benton said.

  “I’m sure you could, but you haven’t had the training.”

  “We did a scene at the academy. I was very good at it.”

  “That wasn’t a real scene, just a setup. I’m going to get Deputy Grady out here to do this one.”

  Benton seemed pleased by that. “Can she come by and give me the third degree later?”

  Benton had been dating the deputy for a while. Rhodes didn’t see that they had anything in common, and he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea. It was none of his business, however, as he often reminded himself, so he tried to stay out of it.

  “We don’t do the third degree anymore,” Rhodes said. “We ran out of rubber hoses.”

  “That’s too bad,” Benton said.

  Rhodes heard a siren. “Did someone call an ambulance?”

  “Not me,” Benton said. “I know better.” He looked around. “I’m probably the only one who does, though. There were a lot of people here, and they all have cell phones. Half of them probably called. And took videos.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “I don’t know. There was a lot of excitement in the halls just before the bell was about to ring for the eight o’clock class, and I stepped out of my office to see what was going on. Someone said there was a body out here. And there was.”

  Rhodes could find out from Hack who’d called it in. Even if no name had been given, they’d have the number of the caller. The caller might not have discovered the body, however.

  “Do you have any idea what Wellington was doing out here?” Rhodes asked.

  Benton smiled. It wasn’t quite a smirk, but it tended in that direction. “You don’t want me working the scene.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  Benton pointed to a cigarette butt that lay not far from Wellington’s body. “There’s no smoking in the building. If you want to smoke, you have to come outside. The Dumpster’s a great big ashtray.”

  “You don’t seem too upset by all this,” Rhodes said.

  “Danger is my game.”

  “Sure it is, but there’s more to it than that. So tell me.”

  Benton stared off somewhere to the west. Rhodes looked in that direction. There was a field and then a small housing addition. Above that, blue sky with some fluffy clouds floating around. Benton wasn’t looking at any of that.

  “Well?” Rhodes said.

  “I thought you wanted me to go to my office.”

  An ambulance pulled into the parking lot, siren whooping.

  “All right,” Rhodes said. “I need to send that ambulance away. Don’t go anywhere.”

  The ambulance stopped, and the siren trailed off into a low whine.

  “Except to my office,” Benton said.

  “That’s right,” Rhodes said.

  Benton turned away, and Rhodes started for the ambulance. As he did, a car peeled out of the parking lot, tires smoking and screeching. Someone had been keeping out of sight, waiting for the chance to get away.

  “Benton!” Rhodes called. He was already running for the Charger. “Keep the EMTs away from the body. Keep people away from the scene.”

  “I thought I was supposed to go to my office,” Benton said.

  “Not now,” Rhodes said, his hand on the door latch. He wondered if everybody had been taking lessons from Hack. “I’m deputizing you. Temporarily.”

  “I’ll make you proud,” Benton said. He pointed to the badge holder dangling from Rhodes’s belt. “Do I get one of those?”

  Rhodes ignored him. He opened the door, jumped in the Charger, and took off after the car, which was on the highway headed back toward town. Rhodes was out of the parking lot before he got his seat belt hooked.

  The car he was chasing was a gray Chevy Malibu at least ten years old. The trunk had a line of rust across it, and the headliner drooped down. There was nothing wrong with the engine, however. The car was flat-out moving. Rhodes could barely see the top of the driver’s head above the headrest.

  Rhodes turned on the siren and light bar, then grabbed the radio and called Hack. “Get Ruth Grady out to the college. Tell her it’s an emergency. And get the justice of the peace out there.”

  “What’s goin’ on?” Hack asked.

  “Later,” Rhodes said. He hooked the mic, then unhooked it and called Buddy, another of the deputies.

  “I’m chasing a gray Malibu,” Rhodes said. “It’ll be over the overpass in a few seconds. Where are you?”

  “Out by the McDonald’s.”

  “That’s the way we’re headed.”

  “Hot pursuit?”

  Rhodes glanced at his speedometer. It was nearing eighty.

  “Yes.”

  “Roger that,” Buddy said. “I’m on the way.”

  Rhodes hadn’t been involved in a high-speed chase in years, and he didn’t like them. They were dangerous to him, to th
e driver he was chasing, and to any citizens who might happen along. Rhodes wouldn’t have gone after the Malibu if there hadn’t been a dead man involved. Even at that, he wasn’t sure it was worth it.

  Buddy, on the other hand, loved anything that promised excitement. He’d probably burned rubber for a mile along the highway as soon as Rhodes was off the radio.

  The Malibu was down the opposite side of the overpass and nearly to the first stoplight when Rhodes got to the top. The light was red. Rhodes didn’t think the driver would stop, but as soon as he thought it, the Malibu’s brake lights came on. Rhodes heard the squeal of tires and brakes.

  A pickup had gotten into the intersection. The Malibu’s driver slid into a turn and almost avoided the truck, but the car clipped the back bumper and spun the truck around. Rhodes had to mash down on his own brakes as the pickup whirled around in the intersection, brakes and tires howling.

  The driver of the Malibu kept on turning and made a right onto the street that led through the mostly deserted downtown and into a residential area. Rhodes came almost to a stop. He saw that the pickup hadn’t hit anything and that the driver, a young woman, seemed okay. All the other traffic had stopped, and the drivers were already on their cell phones, calling 911 or the ambulance service or their friends. Or taking pictures.

  Rhodes stepped on the accelerator and started after the Malibu again.

  The Chevy whipped past the law offices of Randy Lawless, past the civic center and the fire station. A couple of firemen sat on the bench outside. They stared after the Malibu and then at Rhodes.

  Rhodes heard another siren and looked in his rearview mirror. Buddy was behind him and coming up fast. Rhodes hoped he didn’t try to pass. Sometimes Buddy could be overly excited.

  They flew past houses and people who gawked at them from the yards. One person was even aiming a cell phone at him. He hoped the video didn’t wind up on Jennifer Loam’s Web site. At a couple of places dogs sat in the yards, their heads back, their mouths open. Rhodes knew they were howling along with his siren, but he couldn’t hear them.

  The driver of the Malibu would have to make a choice soon because if he went straight on, he’d be on a much narrower street, and there was no outlet. However, he could try taking the big curve, an almost ninety-degree turn to the left.

  He picked the turn. The Malibu leaned over to the right so far that Rhodes thought it would flip. Metal scraped the pavement and sent sparks along the side of the car.

  Rhodes braked and slowed to a more sensible speed, hoping that Buddy wouldn’t smash into him, but even Buddy knew better than to try that dangerous curve at such a speed. Just a few blocks farther on was a curve to the right, just as dangerous, but the Chevy was around it and gone by the time Rhodes had it in sight.

  Now there was nothing in front of the Malibu but a long, straight highway. Years ago, long before Rhodes or anyone else in town had been born, coal had been mined in the southeastern part of the county, and a railroad had been built so that the coal could be transported. The highway was built on the old railroad bed.

  The Malibu pulled away. Rhodes wondered what it had under the hood. He pressed down on the gas, and the Charger responded. The speedometer registered eighty-five. Then ninety.

  A quick glance in the mirror showed Rhodes that Buddy was still behind him. He checked the speedometer again. Still ninety.

  A look ahead gave Rhodes bad news. About a quarter of a mile away, a big green and yellow combine harvester was trundling along, taking up a good bit more than its share of the narrow road.

  A farmer was probably moving the combine from one parcel of land to another. It was the kind of thing that had to be done now and then, nothing to worry about in the normal course of events, but this event wasn’t anywhere near normal.

  The man driving the combine must have heard the sirens. He looked back and saw what was bearing down on him. There was no shoulder on the highway, but as quickly as he could, the farmer moved the combine toward the side of the road that sloped off into a ditch.

  The Malibu swerved to pass it, but there wasn’t going to be quite enough room. The car’s left side went off the highway. The back wheel threw up dead grass, dirt, and rocks, some of which bounced along the highway like little grenades.

  One of the rocks came straight at the Charger’s windshield, and it took everything Rhodes had in him to keep his eyes on the road and not to duck.

  The rock hit the top of the windshield with a sound like a rifle shot. The rock sailed away, and a crack ran down the glass, spiderwebbing off in crazy patterns. Rhodes could still see, but it was tricky.

  The Malibu shuddered along, slowing a good bit as the driver fought to get it back on the highway. Rhodes thought for a second he wouldn’t manage it, but then he did, and as soon as the wheels grabbed pavement, the car sped up.

  The combine was almost entirely in the ditch now, and Rhodes whipped past it. He didn’t risk a glance at the driver, who Rhodes figured was pulling out a cell phone.

  The highway was clear as far ahead as Rhodes could see, and there were few houses along the way. In places there were fields beside the road. In others trees grew close to the pavement. Farther down the way there were steep drop-offs right beside the road.

  At the rate they were traveling, they’d be over the county line in under ten minutes. Rhodes reached for the radio to call ahead to the sheriff’s department in the next county, but before he reached it, the casing peeled off the Malibu’s right rear tire.

  Pieces of rubber spun up in the air. One the size of a bloated water moccasin slammed into Rhodes’s already cracked windshield, which sagged inward but didn’t break. Rhodes couldn’t see a thing.

  He held tight to the steering wheel with one hand and pushed the button that let down the driver’s window with the other. He stuck his head out, and the wind whipped his hair, what there was of it. Speedo would’ve loved the feeling, but it didn’t have much appeal for Rhodes. A bug slapped his forehead and stung him as if it had been fired from a pellet gun.

  In front of him, the Malibu slid at an angle down the road as the driver struggled with the wheel. Rhodes thought for sure that he wouldn’t be able to bring the car straight again. Somehow he did, but only for a second. Almost as soon as the car straightened, it slipped into another angled skid, this time in the direction opposite of the first one.

  Rhodes was convinced the Malibu was going to roll this time, but it didn’t. It slowed down, and Rhodes saw the brake lights as the driver pumped the pedal.

  Rhodes slowed, too, and both cars were down to about forty when the Chevy left the road. It bounced through the ditch like a giant oblong basketball. It didn’t go far after that because there were trees in the way. It hit the trees sideways, with the passenger side against them. Smoke poured from under the hood. There appeared to be smoke in the passenger compartment, but Rhodes knew that was just powder from the air bag.

  Bringing the county car to a stop just off the road about halfway into the ditch, Rhodes got out. Buddy was right behind him, already out of the car and holding his sidearm in a two-handed grip.

  “I don’t think you’ll need that,” Rhodes said, looking at the Malibu.

  The driver’s-side air bag had deflated, but Rhodes couldn’t see anyone. The driver might have been injured, unconscious, or just lying low.

  “You never know,” Buddy said. “How many people in the car?”

  “I didn’t see anybody but the driver,” Rhodes said.

  He started walking toward the car with Buddy at his side.

  “Why was he running away from you?” Buddy asked.

  “I’m not sure. There was some trouble at the college, and maybe he tried to get away from it.”

  “Seepy Benton at it again?”

  “Benton’s never caused any trouble.” Rhodes paused. “Well, not any real trouble. This was something else. There was a dead man in the parking lot.”

  As they neared the car, Buddy said, “You think the driver her
e had something to do with the dead man since he fled the scene?”

  Fled the scene. Rhodes grinned. Buddy had a fondness for what he believed to be authentic cop jargon.

  “Maybe he just wanted to skip class today,” Rhodes said. “We’ll ask him. Let’s stop here.”

  They were about ten yards from the car. Rhodes heard the hissing of steam escaping from the radiator and smelled burned rubber and hot metal. The trunk lid had popped open, but the doors were still shut.

  “Think he’s playing possum?” Buddy asked. He still held the pistol in both hands.

  “Could be. Let’s have a look in the trunk. It’s open, so we don’t need an invitation.”

  They circled to the back of the car and peered into the shadowy trunk from a few feet away.

  “Good Lord,” Buddy said. “He’s got somebody’s head in there!”

  Chapter 3

  “That’s not a head,” Rhodes said. “It’s a wig stand. With hair on it. Real human hair, too, I’ll bet.”

  “He scalped his victim?”

  Buddy’s voice trembled. Rhodes didn’t know if the cause was excitement or disgust.

  “No,” Rhodes said. “His victim was Lonnie Wallace.”

  “It was Lonnie Wallace’s body at the college?”

  Rhodes wondered why all his conversations seemed to go this way. Maybe it was somehow his own fault.

  “It wasn’t Lonnie’s body. Lonnie’s just fine, but his shop was burglarized last night. Somebody stole some wigs and hair extensions. That’s probably one of the wigs. It’s on a wig stand. The extensions might be in the trunk, too.”

  Rhodes knew it was often a mistake to make assumptions, but in this case they seemed warranted.

  “Oh,” Buddy said.

  He sounded disappointed, and Rhodes supposed he was. Capturing someone who scalped his victims would have been a lot more exciting than capturing, or apprehending, as Buddy would have put it, someone who’d stolen some human hair extensions and a wig or two.

  Rhodes walked to the trunk for a closer look. Sure enough, there were some plastic bags that held what appeared to be hair. He went back to Buddy.