The Prairie Chicken Kill

by Bill Crider

  Denbow came to mind. How did he happen to stop York for speeding? I wouldn't think that the deputies regularly patrolled the streets of Picketville for speeders. Or maybe it wasn't Peavy who was protecting someone. Maybe it was Denbow.

  Then there was Ralph Evans. I didn't think he'd done anything himself, but he could have had it done. That would be more his style.

  Killing the Prairie Chicken might have been symbolically important to him, or he might have had it in for Lance because the station was going to drop his show. Since Lindeman was the moving force behind dropping the show, Evans wouldn't have regretted his death.

  And of course there was a rumored connection between Peavy and Evans' Minute Men. Maybe there was something going on there that was worth investigating.

  Or maybe Gar had been acting alone, out of his loyalty to Evans. I could believe that easily enough of Gar, and even of Bert, though I wasn't sure Bert had the brains to find his fanny with a flashlight.

  I couldn't help thinking that there was something in all of this that I was overlooking, something so basic that I should have seen it immediately, sitting right out in the open like that letter in the Poe story.

  But maybe not. I finished off the Big Red and set the can on the nightstand. I sat up and looked at the bedside clock. Nine forty-seven. Time to call Dino and see what he had for me, if anything.

  On my way to the pay phone, I tuned in Ralph Evans. He sounded as smooth as ever, and his topic for the moment was militia groups, specifically his own Minute Men.

  "Now I know that there are racist groups out there," he said. "I'm not so naive that I don't know that there are groups full of people like that Mark Fuhrman that lied about using the N-word at the O. J. Simpson trial. And I guess it's even true that some groups are full of subversive types who want to overthrow the government of this great land of ours, the kind of scum who wreck trains and blow up buildings and kill innocent men, women, and children.

  "But I'm here to tell you that the Picketville Minute Men aren't a bit like that. There's not a person I know that would ever be involved in any kind of violence or illegal act. Sure, we're worried about the way the power of big government keeps growing and growing, and we're worried about how they're trying to take all our rights away, but we're not going to kill anybody to put a stop to abuses like that. We're committed to working for changes through all the legitimate channels, and we don't want any kooks joining up with us.

  "Now while you're pondering that, let's have a few words about some of our great sponsors. After that I'll be back to take some more of your calls."

  Once again he sounded completely convincing, and he might have been talking directly to me. I wondered for a second if there were some way he could tell the exact second that I'd turned on my radio.

  But of course he wasn't talking to me. He was reassuring his sponsors and his listeners, and maybe even Lance Garrison, saying that he was really a responsible citizen and that they didn't have to worry about his causing any trouble.

  Now that Paul Lindeman was out of the way, maybe Evans really didn't even have to worry. He'd seemed awfully sure that Lance wouldn't cancel him.

  I clicked off the radio and stopped at the pay phone. Candleflies swooped around the light that illuminated the handset, and I brushed them away from my face as I dropped in my quarter.

  Dino answered on the first ring.

  "What have you got for me?" I asked.

  "You're sure in a hurry these days," he said. "No 'How's it going, Dino?' or social talk at all."

  I sighed and said, "How's it going, Dino?"

  "Pretty good. How's it with you?"

  "Great. Now what have you got?"

  "I'm sorry I ever told you about Lance and his chicken," Dino said. "It's made you as impatient as a mainlander. I guess it was a bad idea."

  "You got that right. But you did tell me, so give with the information."

  "All right. Who do you want first, Abbott or Thornton?"

  "Why don't we do it alphabetically."

  "Sure, why not? Lloyd Abbott was a P.I. in Houston, like you said. Got a little display ad in the Yellow Pages, nothing special, just about an eighth of a page."

  "Is that all you did, look in the Yellow Pages?"

  "Hey, you gotta start somewhere. You want to hear this or not?"

  "Yeah. While you're at it, tell me where he was listed."

  "Fourth investigator in the book, but the first ad."

  That fit with what I'd thought. Paul picked Abbott, if he'd picked him, because he was the first prominent name in the Yellow Pages.

  "OK. Tell me what the ad said."

  "I thought you didn't want to hear this," Dino said.

  "I'm getting interested. Do you remember what it said or not?"

  "I wrote it down. It says 'Abbott and Fillmore. Domestic Investigations. Discreet. Confidential.'"

  So Abbott was a divorce lawyer. I hadn't remembered that about him. Paul had really picked the wrong guy, but he probably thought "domestic investigations" meant those conducted within the borders of the U.S.

  "Did you talk to Fillmore?" I asked.

  "Yeah. He had a lot to say when I mentioned the hanging. Of course, he had to check me out first, but he told me plenty."

  "For example."

  "For example, he and another guy went to Picketville to scope things out. He doesn't think there was any suicide. He thinks somebody killed Abbott on purpose."

  I thought so, too. "Did he find out anything?"

  "No. The sheriff basically ran him out of town before he could get started good. The sheriff told him not to nose around in things he didn't know anything about, and he told him that he'd let him know when the investigation was closed."

  "And did he?"

  "Not yet. Fillmore calls him every few days, though. The sheriff says he's still working on it."

  That was news to me. Everyone had told me that the investigation by the Sheriff's Department had been concluded. Peavy was shining Fillmore on.

  "Did Fillmore know what Abbott was working on?"

  "Not really. Abbott wasn't exactly one of your reliable guys. He didn't file regular reports, and he didn't tell who Fillmore who his client was in Picketville. Seems as if Abbott and Fillmore weren't really partners. They just shared an office. I think if they'd been closer, Fillmore would still be in Picketville."

  "Yeah," I said. "When someone kills your partner, you're supposed to do something about it."

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind."

  "If you say so. Anyway, Fillmore said that he wasn't surprised Abbott got in trouble. He always operated right out in the open, with some stupid cover story about how he was working for the C.I.A. or something."

  Abbott didn't sound like a genius. Paul Lindeman should have called me. I couldn't have done any worse. But then if he'd called me, I might have been the one swinging from the bars in the Picketville jail.

  "What about Gar Thornton?" I asked. "Did you get a line on him?"

  "Not much of one. I still have a few contacts who help me out, though. They tell me he used to wrestle professionally under the name The Professor. He came in the ring dressed in an academic robe with a hood like he had a Ph.D. from Harvard or somewhere. He wore one of those square hats with the tassel on it. He always carried a rolled-up diploma, too."

  I tried to imagine Gar in academic regalia. I couldn't.

  "I guess he lost a lot," I said.

  "Yeah. But he was really a pretty good wrestler, and he got tired of being the loser all the time and got out of the game. He did promotions for athletic-related events for a while, like big card shows at the Astro Hall and stuff like that, and then he just sort of dropped out of sight."

  "He's good at that," I said. "He's just done it again. Is that it?"

  "That's it. Any help?"

  "I don't know yet," I told him.

  There was something in what he said that was tickling at the back of my mind, but I couldn't bring out to the front where I
could get a look at it. Maybe later.

  "Take care of my cat," I said.

  "Don't worry about the cat. We're old buddies now. He doesn't even miss you."

  He was probably right about that.

  Twenty-Three

  I've never liked funerals. I suppose that some people do; I'm just not one of them.

  I don't like the music, I don't like the flowers, I don't like the sad attempt to recall the happy moments of the dead person's life. I don't like the sermons, either. I don't like grief.

  I don't like seeing the casket lowered into the ground, and I don't like watching the survivors tossing a handful of earth into the open hole.

  Maybe I don't like all these things because they remind me of my own inevitable end. Anyway, for whatever reason, I was glad when the last words had been said and the cars began to leave the little oak-shaded cemetery near the funeral home where the visitation had been held.

  It was a beautiful day. The rain had blown on down to the coast, leaving the sky a brilliantly washed blue, and the sun was pleasantly warm as it filtered through the oak leaves rustling above us. But sweetness of the weather couldn't take away the chill of the burial.

  After the minister had given his final words of comfort to Anne and Red and walked away, there was no one left at the grave except for the funeral director, who was standing at a discreet distance away, Anne, Red, me, and Lance.

  The two men who were going to fill in the grave were sitting on the other side of the cemetery, waiting patiently in the shade of their backhoe.

  Lance was standing next to Anne, too close to her, I thought. She was dry-eyed now, though she had wept openly during the service.

  Red had wept too, but he'd tried not to let anyone see him. He'd kept his head down and brushed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Now he came over to me and said, "Smith, I want to get that bastard Gar. Him and Evans. They're the ones that put my boy in the ground."

  "We don't know that, Red. I wish I could say we did."

  He shook his head. "I thought you were different," he said. "I thought you weren't like Peavy and Denbow, but I guess you are. You're scared of Evans. You're afraid of what Gar might do to you."

  I thought he was misjudging me, but to tell the truth I wasn't exactly looking forward with eager anticipation to meeting Gar again. I looked over to where Anne and Lance were talking, their heads together.

  "I'm sorry to be a disappointment to you," I told Red.

  He shook his head. "Hell, I didn't mean all that. I know you're doin' the best you can. It's just that you're up against too much. You goin' back to Galveston now?"

  "Not yet. But soon."

  Maybe even sooner than I wanted to. Before the funeral service Lance had called me aside for a little talk.

  "I think we can forget your job here, Tru," he said. "I'm pretty sure it was York that killed my bird. I'm going to pay you well for what you've done, but you can go on back to Galveston any time now."

  "I think you're wrong," I said. "I don't think York killed Lindeman, and he didn't kill your bird, either."

  "Do you have any proof of that?"

  I didn't, of course. "It's just a feeling I have."

  "Well, feelings don't count for much in a court of law, do they?"

  "I guess not."

  "I know not. I appreciate your help, but I think it's best that we forget the whole thing now."

  And as far as Lance was concerned, that was that.

  Not as far as I was concerned, however.

  I spoke to Anne again and left the cemetery. First I went by the Inn to change out of the cheap shirt and tie I'd bought for the funeral. Then I drove to the jail.

  "You want to talk to York?" Peavy said. "What makes you think I'll let you?"

  "Because you like me?"

  He almost smiled. "Not hardly."

  "Because there's no real reason not to?"

  He thought about it. "Oh, hell. Why not?"

  He even let us sit in the interrogation room, which I assumed was bugged. I imagined Peavy sitting in his office, leaning back in his squeaky chair and listening to every word York and I said.

  If that was true, I didn't care. I wasn't going to say anything I didn't want Peavy to hear.

  York didn't look good in the jailhouse jumpsuit. Orange wasn't his color. He also didn't look as if he'd slept much the previous night, and he probably hadn't eaten well, either.

  "You've got to get me out of here, Smith," he said as soon as he sat down in the rickety wooden chair across the table from me. "I can't stand another day of this place."

  I thought he could probably stand a lot more than he thought he could. He was about to find out, since there was no way I could get him out.

  "What about a lawyer?" I asked. "The judge will set your bond today, and then maybe you can go home."

  "I've got a good lawyer, but he says they're going to ask that no bond be set because this is a murder case. He says I might have to stay here for weeks -- until the trial."

  "You'll have to go before the Grand Jury first. They'll no-bill you unless the evidence against you is better than I think it is."

  York stood up and walked nervously around the room. When he came back to the chair and sat down, he said, "It's better than you think it is. To tell the truth, it looks pretty bad."

  I said that he was right, and that he shouldn't have knocked Denbow down and tried to get away.

  "What would you have done?" he asked. "I knew I was innocent, and the last man they got into this stupid jail of theirs wound up hanging from the bars. I was afraid the same thing would happen to me."

  I wasn't sure he'd actually been thinking that clearly. He was the kind of guy who liked to squeeze your hand when he shook it; maybe he thought he could actually overpower Denbow and get away with it.

  "But that's not all," York said. "There's something else, something worse."

  I was a little surprised at that. I said, "You want to tell me about it?"

  He didn't, but he went ahead. I guess he didn't see any way out of it, not if he wanted my help.

  "I had a crush on Anne," he said. "A foolish adolescent crush, that's all it was. I can see that now."

  "That's not evidence," I said.

  "Oh, it's a lot worse than that. I kept a diary. They found it when they searched my house."

  That could be pretty bad, all right, depending on what he'd written down.

  "Lots of birders keep diaries," I said. "They write down all the birds they've seen. Or they have a checklist. They like to keep score."

  "I had a checklist," York said, "just like everybody else. But the diary was different. I put my thoughts about Anne in there."

  That was bad, all right.

  "And I put my thoughts about Paul in there, too," he continued. "I said something about how nice it would be if Paul weren't around any longer."

  That was even worse. York wasn't as smart as I'd thought, but then a man in love does stupid things sometimes. I'd been in love with Anne myself, once, and I thought I might be half in love with her still. So I couldn't really blame York for his stupidity.

  "That doesn't sound good," I admitted, "but it's not proof of anything. Everyone's wished something like that at one time or another. If your lawyer's any good, the judge will set bond, and you'll be out of here before long. That's not what you have to worry about."

  He didn't look relieved. "What do I have to worry about then?"

  "Are you guilty?"

  "Of course not. This is the most ridiculous thing that I can imagine happening. First of all, I wasn't speeding when I was stopped."

  "Are you sure?"

  He sat back down and said, "Of course I am. I never speed. That's one of the things I pride myself on -- obeying the traffic laws. I know how dangerous it is to drive to fast on some residential street, where a child can run out from between two parked cars when you least expect it."

  "Then why did Denbow stop you?"

  "You'll have
to ask Deputy Denbow that question." His mouth twisted when he said deputy. "But I think he stopped me because he knew that shotgun was in my back seat."

  "That's another thing I wanted to know. How did that shotgun get there?"

  "I don't have any idea. It's certainly not my shotgun. I hate guns. I would never allow one in my house, much less in my car."

  He sounded as if he were telling the truth. I remembered the contempt in his voice when he asked me if I was a gun nut during our first conversation.

  "So you think someone put the gun in your car?"

  "It has to be that way. Someone's trying to blame me for the murder."

  "They can't do it with the shotgun. That's another thing you don't have to worry about. They can't prove it was the one used in the murder. It may look suspicious, but that's all. Your lawyer will know all that."

  For the first time his eyes showed a glimmer of hope.

  "Are you sure?" he asked.

  "I'm sure. Ordinary rifles leave distinctive markings on bullets fired from them. Shotguns don't. You may have to spend another night in here, but that's the worst you can expect."

  "Thank God." He looked thoughtful. "Does Anne know about this?"

  I nodded.

  "I was afraid of that. I was a fool to behave the way I did about her. But the truth is, she encouraged me."

  To think I'd been feeling sorry for him. I wanted to lean across the table and hit him.

  "Don't talk about Anne like that," I said.

  He smiled a thin smile. "She gets to you, too, doesn't she."

  I stood up. "I don't like you much, York. I'm beginning to hope you're guilty."

  "Well, I'm not."

  "Maybe not," I said, "but you're an asshole."

  "And you're an uncouth ruffian."

  He had me there, so I decided it was time to leave. I walked to the door and knocked for the jailor. When he opened the door, I turned and said to York, "I may be an uncouth ruffian, but you're the one in jail for murder."

  It was childish, I admit, but at least I got in the last word. Or if I didn't, I couldn't hear his answer. I slammed the door shut too hard.