Stag Party (Blanco County Mysteries Book 8)

by Ben Rehder

  “Bobby says Phil was trying to talk to Aaron Endicott, to force the issue,” Marlin said. “You know Phil. He wasn’t going to sit around and wait for Endicott’s next move. When is your interview at the hospital?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “When will the transplant take place?”

  “One step at a time,” Nicole said. “After the interview, I still have to pass the physical.”

  “And you will,” Marlin said. “So when would the transplant take place? Just a rough timeline.”

  She grabbed his beer, took a drink, then said, “Probably within a month. Maybe sooner. Depends on whether it’s a direct transplant or a paired exchange. But why don’t we talk about that later? You hungry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think we have some leftovers in there.”

  “Let’s run into town and get supper,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  He nodded, but he was thinking, Within a month? He hadn’t considered that the transplant might happen that quickly.

  “Let me change real quick,” Nicole said. She gave him an enthusiastic kiss, then turned and retreated down the hallway. Marlin took a seat at the small table against the wall. He could hear Geist snoring slowly and deeply from her bed in the living room.

  Marlin was frustrated, because even though they had Aaron Endicott in custody and facing charges, it hadn’t helped them make any progress on the Harley Frizzell homicide. He’d been hoping that the afternoon’s events at the Endicott ranch were somehow tied to the Frizzell case, but that hope hadn’t panned out.

  At least there was a bright side. Maybe.

  Colby, Red O’Brien, and Billy Don Craddock had all told the same story about the shootout, with no inconsistencies, and based on that, Marlin was reasonably confident the prosecutor would file on Aaron Endicott for three counts of attempted murder. That might be as good as it would get. Not nearly as good as a first-degree murder charge. And, of course, there was no guarantee a jury would convict. Jurors might feel that a landowner had a right to shoot at armed trespassers, even after the trespassers were basically pinned down and helpless.

  It would be fantastic if Endicott would answer questions and provide information that would be his undoing. No such luck. He was refusing to speak—about the shootout or even his encounter with the alleged arsonists. He had simply ignored anyone who spoke to him, except for the doctors at the hospital. They had stitched him up and subjected him to a neurological exam. No concussion, but he did lose one upper right bicuspid from Colby’s second punch. That made Marlin smile. A wonder Colby hadn’t broken his hand.

  Everyone in the sheriff’s office had expected the Endicott family attorney—Ted Weyland—to make contact shortly after the arrest, but it had taken several hours, due to some sort of mix-up. Despite Weyland’s bluster on the phone, Garza had informed him that Endicott would be arraigned sometime the next day, which meant that he had to spend the night in jail. No special treatment. That’s the breaks. He could post bond and get out after the arraignment.

  When Weyland insisted on seeing Aaron Endicott that afternoon, Garza had said, “Actually, he hasn’t made it clear to us that he wants you to represent him. He hasn’t asked for an attorney.”

  Weyland was practically screaming when Garza politely excused himself and hung up the phone.

  Marlin took a long drink of beer and tried to stop thinking of the day’s events. He could feel himself stressing, and he normally didn’t stress. Too much going on at once.

  Now he could hear Nicole coming back down the hallway just as his cell phone rang. Bobby Garza calling.

  “Trooper in Crockett County grabbed the two kids from Nebraska,” the sheriff said. “You want to hear the good news or the bad news first?”

  Marlin had known it was only a matter of time before Liam Mooney and Jessi Winslow turned up. Where were they going to go? They weren’t criminal masterminds, and they had limited options.

  Marlin’s short conversation with Liam Mooney’s mother had revealed that he was an avid proponent of animal rights—an activist, of sorts. So that was probably the motive right there. Apparently Liam Mooney and Jessi Winslow had driven down from Nebraska to victimize the Endicotts and make a statement against hunting.

  “Give me the good news,” Marlin said to Garza. “Please.”

  Nicole was back in the kitchen now, leaning against the counter, giving him a look that said, Who is that?

  Bobby, Marlin mouthed.

  “Well, I hope it’s good news,” Garza said. “We’ll have to wait and see. The first thing out of Liam Mooney’s mouth—after the trooper cuffed him—was that he had information about the Harley Frizzell murder and he wanted to make a deal.”

  Marlin was having difficulty processing what he’d heard. How in the world did this kid have information about the Frizzell case?

  “You there?” Garza said.

  “Yeah,” Marlin said. “Just confused. And trying not to get my hopes up.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Garza said. “I am too. But that’s all he’d say. Don’t know if it’s legit or not. We’ll get Mooney back here and see what’s what. Bill Tatum is on the way to pick him up.”

  “Just Mooney?” Marlin said. “What about the girl?”

  “Well, I’m afraid that’s where the bad news comes in,” Garza said.

  At ten o’clock, Red O’Brien was enjoying his ninth cold beer and trying to figure out why Tony Romo was still the Dallas Cowboys’ quarterback. Here they were in the fourth quarter and Romo had just thrown his third interception. He’d also fumbled once in the first half. Pitiful. Yeah, he was a nice guy and everything—but championship material? Not hardly.

  Regardless of the score, Red was grateful for the distraction. He didn’t like to admit it, but his nerves were still rattled from the shootout that afternoon. Serious business when a psycho starts blasting away at you with an AR-15. Funny thing was, Red wasn’t all that nervous as it was happening, and he still wasn’t nervous when the game warden was interviewing him later. It was the dope. Kept him mellowed out. As it wore off, that’s when he began to realize how close he’d come to dying out there. That’s when his pits started getting sweaty. If those trees hadn’t been there when—

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Red almost jumped out of his skin as somebody rapped on the flimsy metal door of his trailer.

  What the hell?

  He set his beer down, got out of his recliner, and moved a curtain just enough to peek outside. Billy Don was on the porch. That showed exactly how lost in thought Red had been, that Billy Don could climb the steps to the porch, the lumber groaning underneath him, and Red hadn’t even heard it.

  Red swung the door open. “I gave at the office.”

  Now he saw that Billy Don was carrying a duffel bag.

  “Can I stay here tonight?” Billy Don said. “Betty Jean kicked me out.”

  43

  The next morning at 8:42, Ernie Turpin brought Liam Andrew Mooney into an interview room at the sheriff’s department, where Bobby Garza and Deborah Timms, the county prosecutor, were waiting. John Marlin and Bill Tatum were watching through one-way glass in an adjoining room. Everyone was oddly quiet. The interview was being videotaped.

  After Mooney had taken a chair and Turpin had left, Deborah Timms stated the date and time, and then said, “Mr. Mooney, I understand you claim to have information about the murder of Harley Frizzell.”

  Timms had a voice that somehow managed to be soothing and assertive at the same time. She was an attractive brunette woman in her late forties, dressed impeccably in a navy suit.

  “Yeah, I do,” Mooney said. “That big dude who decked me told Jessi what happened, and she told me.”

  “You’re talking about Aaron Endicott?”

  “Yeah. But we didn’t know who he was at the time.”

  “Why would Aaron Endicott just randomly share information with Jessi about a murder?” Timms asked.

  “I have no
idea. Why would he try to bust my skull open? Why would he take Jessi away at gunpoint? Probably because he’s nuts, that’s why. Jessi called him a murderer, meaning animals, but he thought she meant that old man. So he told her what he knew about it. Maybe he didn’t like anyone thinking he was a killer. Maybe he was planning to kill Jessi, so it didn’t matter what he told her. Maybe he thought nobody would believe her if she repeated it.”

  Mooney was plainly out of his depth—already spilling some specifics before he had a deal in place. If he had any sense, he would be negotiating through an attorney. Otherwise, Timms would continue trying to extract as much information as she could without offering him a plea arrangement.

  “What exactly did Endicott say to Jessi?” Timms said.

  “Hey, I thought, you know, we were going to make a deal. Before I tell you what he said.”

  “What sort of deal are you looking for?” Timms said.

  “I don’t want to be charged with anything, or Jessi either,” Mooney said. “I don’t want us to get in trouble for anything we did. I mean anything we might have done. Allegedly.”

  Or Jessi either.

  Marlin noticed those words above the others. The kid was loyal, give him that. Jessi Winslow—who had bailed on this kid and tried to leave him behind—was currently unconscious in intensive care at a hospital in San Angelo. She had an injury to her lower spine, a crushed pelvis, and a fractured femur. Amazing she wasn’t dead, based on what Marlin had heard about the accident. She’d run right in front of a cement truck. Now she was facing a year or two of physical rehab.

  “Mr. Mooney,” Timms said, “we can’t really come to any sort of agreement until I hear what you have to tell us. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to work, because I have no idea if you have useful information or not. Besides, it sounds as if it won’t be admissible in court, because it will be hearsay. Not just hearsay, but double hearsay, or possibly even triple hearsay.”

  “At least you’ll know who really killed that old man,” Mooney said.

  “No, all we’ll know is what Jessi claims Aaron Endicott told her,” Timms said. “Endicott could have lied to Jessi, or he could be mistaken about what he told her. Even if he was telling the truth, or thought he was, there are many different legal hurdles that could prevent me from using the information. So the only thing I can do right now is tell you that if you provide information that helps us solve the murder of Harley Frizzell, I’m sure that will be helpful in your own situation.”

  Mooney was obviously struggling—trying to decide whether or not to proceed. Finally, he said, “That’s not good enough. I need a deal. Not some vague promise.”

  Deborah Timms shifted in her seat and took a deep breath. Maybe the kid wasn’t such a pushover after all.

  Timms said, “Here’s the best I can do. Right now, you’re looking at a first-degree felony for arson. If you can provide information that directly leads to a conviction in the murder of Harley Frizzell, my office would be willing to accept a guilty plea for third-degree felony criminal mischief, and I can recommend leniency on your sentencing to the judge. We would also expect you to give a complete and honest statement about your actions—and Jessi Winslow’s actions—that led up to yesterday’s fire at the Endicott ranch. On the other hand, if what you tell us about the Frizzell case does not lead to a conviction, the original charge against you will stand. Are we clear on that?”

  “We’ll put all this in writing?” Mooney asked.

  “Assuming you have something valuable, then yes, we will put this in writing.”

  “What about Jessi?”

  “What about her?”

  “Will she get the deal, too?”

  “I can’t tell you one way or the other,” Timms said, “because obviously I haven’t spoken to her. She hasn’t even been charged with anything yet. Right now, we’re just talking about you.”

  Marlin understood Timms’s careful use of language. She wanted to leave Jessi Winslow out of the deal and maintain the freedom to charge her with a first-degree felony, if necessary.

  After a long pause, Liam Mooney shook his head. “Still not good enough. She didn’t do anything any worse than I did. The agreement has to include her, too.”

  Red woke after nine o’clock and found Billy Don snoring on the couch in the living room.

  Back when Billy Don had lived with Red, he’d had his own room. But Red had eventually removed that bed and burned it in a bonfire in the backyard, because he suspected that the mattress and box springs were infested with scabies or bedbugs or some other sort of critter.

  Red walked past the couch and went into the kitchen, where he grabbed a can of Dr Pepper and a half-eaten bag of Cheez Doodles. He returned to the living room and sank into his recliner. When he popped the top on the Dr Pepper, Billy Don’s snoring stopped. When Red began to munch loudly on a handful of Cheez Doodles, Billy Don’s eyes slowly opened. He saw Red sitting there and grunted an acknowledgment.

  He rubbed his face with both palms, yawned deeply, then extended his long arm over the cable-spool coffee table. “Pass me that bag,” he said.

  Red grabbed one more handful, then leaned forward and handed the bag over.

  “So what’s the deal?” he said.

  Last night, Billy Don hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

  Billy Don made a sound, or possibly said a word, but his mouth was full, and Red couldn’t make it out. So he waited. Then Billy Don said, “She said she don’t want to get married after all. Said she still loves me, but she’d been expecting me to change, and that wasn’t fair to me.”

  Now Billy Don swung his feet off the couch and sat up straight. He reached into the bag for more doodles.

  “What was it she wanted to change about you?” Red asked.

  Probably everything, he thought.

  Billy Don shrugged. “You know. Get a steady job. Or any job. Don’t drink so much beer. She didn’t like smelling pot on me lately—you were right about that. Eat vegetables. Exercise. Lose some weight. See a doctor now and then.”

  “Dang,” Red said.

  “Stop watching so much football. Wear different clothes. Stop cutting my own hair. Don’t make comments when I see a pretty woman. Keep my feet off the coffee table. Do my own laundry.”

  “Jeez,” Red said.

  “Pick up around the house. Leave the toilet seat down. Cook supper or wash the dishes afterwards. Do the grocery shopping now and then. Stuff like that.”

  Yep, everything, Red thought. He’d been warning Billy Don all along about the dangers of a headstrong woman, but he hadn’t listened. No surprise they were having problems.

  “Let me guess,” Red said. “She also said you need to quit hanging around your friends so much—but she didn’t mention me by name.”

  Billy Don’s eyes widened and his hand paused in the bag of doodles. “I was gonna leave that part out. How in the hell did you know that?”

  “I know a lot about women,” Red said.

  “No, really,” Billy Don said.

  “I do,” Red insisted. “I have enough experience that I figured out how they think, and to be honest, that’s why I don’t spend much time around ’em.”

  “I thought it was because none of them would—”

  “So you think this mess is temporary?” Red interrupted.

  “Nope,” Billy Don said. “I’d say we’re done.”

  “The wedding’s off?” Red said.

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. Sorry to hear that,” Red said, although he was glad he wasn’t hooked up to a lie-detector machine at the moment.

  “I’m supposed to get my stuff out of her place in the next few days,” Billy Don said.

  “That’s rough,” Red said.

  Billy Don let out a long sigh and set the bag of Cheez Doodles on the coffee table. The fact that there were still some uneaten doodles in the bag revealed just how deeply Billy Don was hurting.

  Red got up and went into the kitchen. He came back with two
ice-cold tallboys. Yeah, it was early yet, but he had a friend to console, and Red didn’t have any work scheduled for the day, so he didn’t have to remain clear-headed. He popped both tops and handed one of the tallboys to Billy Don.

  “Thanks,” Billy Don mumbled, sounding downright pathetic.

  “If you want your old room back, you got it,” Red said, sinking back into his recliner.

  “Appreciate that.”

  “Hey, you know what, Billy Don?” Red said. “It’ll turn out to be for the best. These things happen for a reason. You’ll probably meet some gal exactly like Betty Jean, but she’ll be willing to accept you for the redneck trailer trash that you are.”

  That brought out the tiniest grin.

  “In the meantime, look on the bright side,” Red said. “You can drink all the beer you want around me.”

  44

  At five minutes past eleven in the morning, Deputy Ernie Turpin brought Aaron Endicott into the same interview room that Liam Mooney had exited thirty minutes earlier.

  Mooney, to his credit, had delivered a bombshell—assuming any of it was true.

  Mooney had not been handcuffed during his interview, but Aaron Endicott was. Garza, Tatum, and Marlin were in the room now, but Deborah Timms had excused herself. This interview was also being recorded.

  Garza began by stating the date and time, and then he asked Endicott to state his full name.

  Aaron Endicott sat motionless.

  Garza didn’t let that slow him down. “Mr. Endicott, we were contacted last night by an attorney named Ted Weyland, and right now he is waiting in our visitor’s area, along with some other attorney whose name I can’t recall at the moment. Some hotshot defense attorney, I think. They drove down from Dallas this morning. Mr. Weyland claims that they both represent you in this matter. Is that true?”

  There was an excruciatingly long pause. Finally, Endicott responded.

  “Nope. I didn’t do anything wrong, so why would I need a lawyer?”

  Marlin realized he had been holding his breath. They’d hoped Endicott would waive his right to an attorney, and it wasn’t surprising that he’d done just that, considering his personality type. He was too proud and stubborn to admit he needed assistance from anybody, and he damn sure wasn’t going to let some government employees intimidate him.