by Terry Shames
“You going on a trip?”
I don’t mean anything by the question, but it brings a suspicious look to his eyes. He sets his cup down hard. “If I had knowed you would give me the third degree, I would have asked somebody else.”
I hold up my hand. “I didn’t mean to pry. It was an idle question, nothing more. Just being sociable.”
He rolls his shoulders and sits back. I know why he is so defensive. Our mamma questioned his every intention, needled him, and never let him have a thought she didn’t shoot down. She seemed to have softened by the time I came along. At least it didn’t eat at me the way it has him. Maybe he defended me when I was young enough not to know I needed defending, or maybe it’s our different natures.
I clear my throat and try to think of a way to ask a question without giving more offense. “When is this going to happen?”
“You don’t have to do it at all, if you don’t want to. I know it’s a burden.”
“It’s not a burden. We love Tom. You know Jeanne dotes on him. We both do.”
He pulls a pack of Lucky Strikes out of his shirt pocket and lights one. “Me and Donna were thinking maybe this weekend we could ask you to keep him.” He takes a long drag and blows the smoke out away from me. He avoids looking at me, and I wonder what he’s up to.
“That’s fine,” I say.
“You said you was in Austin last night?” he asks. “Doing what?”
I could point out to him that his questions are nosier than mine were, but I tell him I had to attend some autopsies.
“Jesus H. Christ. You couldn’t pay me enough to do something like that.”
I want to ask him something, and I know I’m only going to get one chance at it. “You hear anything about those people that got killed? I’m trying to put a name to them.”
“Who, me?” He grinds the cigarette butt out on the bottom of his boot and flicks it out into the yard. “Why would I know anything about people like that?” He stands up. “I got to go. I’ll bring Tom by on Saturday.”
I stand up. “Good. We’ll try to keep him entertained.”
“He’s spoilt enough as it is. You don’t need to do nothing special.”
I watch him tromp down the steps, climb into his old beat-up Ford, and speed away. I know Horace pretty well. He answered my question with another question. That usually means he’s lying, either by omission or commission. What has he got to lie about?
Horace’s visit kept me from what I had planned to do as soon as I walked in the door, which was change clothes and go spend some time with my cows. I take off my uniform, pull on some short-sleeved coveralls, and go down to the pasture. It gives me a good feeling to see that the cows have scattered out. The first couple of days, they huddled together, but now they look more relaxed.
I go into the barn and get a bag of grain and walk out among them. I take a little grain in my hand, and sure enough the youngsters come pushing up to me the way Truly said they would. I like the feel of their noses nuzzling for the bits of grain. Pretty soon a couple of the bolder cows saunter up to get in on the action. The little ones buck and jump around like they’re jealous when one of the larger cows muscles in.
I could spend the rest of the day this way, but I get back into my uniform and head down to the station to find out what’s going on. I don’t wear my uniform often, since it isn’t a requirement, but I didn’t like getting caught in civilian clothes when I encountered John Sutherland for the first time. For now, I’ll dress the part of chief.
Johnny Pat Hruska is on duty. He tells me there have been a couple of phone calls for me. One is from Alvin Beck, the officer in Bobtail whom I asked to research the realtor, Blue Dudley, and his client, Freddie Carmichael. The other is from the high school secretary asking if she can arrange a meeting between me and the principal. I’ve been expecting this call for weeks, but it comes at a bad time. Is there ever a good time to discuss drug problems at the school?
Beck comes right to the point. “Dudley has a list of complaints against him for shady dealings, but no record.”
“And Carmichael?”
He chuckles. “That’s where things get a little strange. There’s no such person, in Houston or in Chicago.”
“He’s using a false name.”
“Sounds like it. Question is, what do you want with him? Is it important enough to dig deeper?”
“I’m not sure. I think so, but give me time to decide.” I thank him and hang up. I’d like him to keep digging, but I’m afraid it’ll get back to Sutherland that I’m interfering with his investigation. If I’m going to nose around Carmichael, I need to be discreet.
I return the school secretary’s call, and she asks if I can squeeze in a meeting this afternoon. I tell her I’ll be there at two o’clock.
I’m hungry, but before I can escape, Bonnie Bedichek flings open the door. “Were you going to call me and tell me how the autopsies went?”
“Bonnie, I just walked in the door. As hard as it may be for you to accept, you aren’t the first person I think of morning, noon, and night.”
She grins. “One of these days, I’ll get you trained. So what did you find out?”
I can’t imagine that it will hurt for me to tell her. “Let’s go over to the café and I’ll tell you.”
“You buying?”
“Seems to me you ought to be the one buying, but I won’t hold you to it.”
Before we can sit down at Town Café, we have to greet people and field questions about the fire and the people killed. I’m impressed by Bonnie’s ability to deflect questions and become the questioner. Eventually we sit down at one of the scarred wooden tables.
The café won’t ever win any decoration awards. It consists of four walls painted white, wood tables and chairs, and pictures of football teams hung all over. The place has changed hands half a dozen times since I was old enough to notice. I don’t think any owner has ever bothered to change the menu. They serve fried chicken and fish, hamburgers, a couple of different kinds of sandwiches, chicken fried steak and smothered steak, plus a standard selection of Mexican food. Although I’ve never noticed any difference in the food from one owner to the next, it’s always pretty good.
Over enchiladas, I give Bonnie general information about the autopsies, figuring she doesn’t want to know the gory details any more than I want to describe them. “The victims were three teenage girls, a woman in her thirties, and a boy around eleven years old.”
Bonnie has a habit of running a thumb under her bottom lip when she’s thinking. “Strange mix. What do you suppose their relationship was?”
“Without knowing any of their names, I don’t know how anybody’s going to find that out,” I say.
“You think Sutherland is going to care enough to do a proper investigation?”
“How should I know? All I know is that it isn’t my business.”
I fork in a last bite of enchilada and look up to see her eyes blazing at me, and her nostrils flared. “So if the highway patrol doesn’t see fit to make it their business, and you’re too timid to step in, I guess whoever killed those people will get off scot-free.”
“Hold on a minute. There’s no need to insult me. I’m not timid, I just don’t know how this fits with my jurisdiction.”
She settles back and folds her arms across her chest. She hasn’t got a lot of meat on her bones, but her chest makes up for it. “So that’s the kind of lawman you intend to be? Don’t step on any toes, keep your head down, and do the least you can to justify your salary?”
“I don’t know the first thing about how to investigate something this big. How am I supposed to find the names of those poor people who got killed? I’ve asked around and I got nowhere. Nobody’s talking, and let’s face it, the resources of the Jarrett Creek PD are a little limited.”
Bonnie holds up a finger. “Fingerprints. You have every right to send off fingerprints for identification.” She flips up the second finger. “Public records. You can find out ho
w to contact the Cato family and ask them if they knew who was living there.” Third finger. “Reward. Not publicly, but privately let it be known that there’s a reward for information about the victims.” Fourth finger. “Contact that Ranger who was here. Wills? Tell him you are concerned that the THP is lacking fire in the belly. He had some history with Sutherland and he wasn’t all that impressed.” On five she spreads her fingers wide. “Number five, use the press!”
She’s right and I feel embarrassed. “If you’re so all-fired smart, why aren’t you the chief of police?”
“Because no way in hell are they going to hire a woman for the job. But there’s an even bigger reason.”
“What’s that?”
She leans in close across the table and says in a fierce voice, “Because I’m a journalist.”
My dignity and pride are wounded. I throw a twenty on the table and get to my feet. “I have to go,” I say.
She looks me up and down and grins. “I’m going to whip you into shape yet.”
I stalk out, hoping nobody notices that my cheeks are flaming and I’m mad as hell.
Chapter 14
The school principal, John Gilpin, was principal when I went to Jarrett Creek High School a dozen plus years ago. At that time he was a big, fat man who wore his pants up high on his massive belly, which made him look like Diego Rivera. The only difference now is that he’s even fatter and his hair is liberally peppered with gray. He shakes hands and motions for me to take a seat in one of the severe-looking wooden chairs facing him across his desk. He has to wedge himself into his wide-seated rolling chair. He doesn’t seem to notice the grunt he lets out as he hoists one cheek and then another into position.
“Samuel, you’ve done all right for yourself. I wouldn’t have given a plug nickel for your chances of making it through college when you were at school here.”
He never was one to waste encouraging words. “Yeah, it took some doing.” It wasn’t the college part that gave me trouble, but the paying for it. That’s why I went into the US Air Force first.
“You went to Texas A&M, right? Remind me what you majored in.”
I sigh. Although I ended up liking the classes, it was a choice initially dictated by the necessity to find a scholarship I had a chance of getting. It made paying for my classes doable. “Geology,” I say.
“That’s right. I remember it was some foolish degree. What in the world did you ever think you were going to do with a degree like that? To do anything in science, you need a master’s or even a PhD.”
I can’t help snapping back. “I assume you didn’t ask me in here to discuss my education. Your secretary said you wanted to see me. Let’s get to the problem.”
He narrows his eyes and I can tell he doesn’t like me taking that tone. He folds his hands across his massive belly and tips his head back to peer down his nose at me. “I have to say I’m disappointed in you.”
“Oh?”
“When you were hired, I expected you to tackle some of the drug problems we’re having at the school, and I have yet to hear a word from you on that matter.”
This is the second time this afternoon that someone has scolded me for not doing my job properly. The fact is, I was waiting to be asked rather than jumping in. It was probably the wrong way to approach it, but it’s too late to worry about that now. “I apologize. It has taken me some time to settle in and get acquainted with the job.”
“You thought it was going to be easy?”
I remember him raking a teacher over the coals once, and he reminded me of my mother. I’m not willing to let that be our relationship. Even if he is a lot older than me, I have some small bit of authority, which I dredge up from somewhere. “Why don’t you tell me what has been happening, and we can get down to business taking care of it.”
Another long-nosed look, but he seems unable to find fault with what I said. “Somebody is selling drugs to these kids, and I want it stopped.”
“How do you know the kids are buying drugs?” I ask.
“What do you mean, how do I know?”
“Are they showing up stoned in class? Skipping class? Cutting up in class? Stealing?”
“All of the above,” he says.
“Who’s giving you the most trouble? Seniors? Juniors?”
He blinks a few times. “I have to look into that. Off the top of my head, I’d say it’s juniors. I expect by the time they’re seniors, they’ve learned to hide their habits.”
“Habits? You mean you think some of these kids are habitual users?”
“I don’t mean habits per se,” he says. He struggles to sit forward and plunks his meaty hands onto his desk. “I mean they don’t show it so much.”
“Or maybe they try it out when they’re juniors and by the time they’re seniors they lose interest.”
“Dream on,” he says.
“Have any of them been caught with drugs in their possession?”
“Once or twice. It’s sometimes prescription bottles from their folks’ medicine cabinets.”
“What did you do with the kids? Did you notify us down at the police department? Because if you did, I didn’t get the message.”
“No, I called them into my office and gave them a good talking-to. I told them that the next time I’d be calling their parents and suspending them from school.”
“But you didn’t talk to the parents?”
“I confiscated the pills, and I thought a warning would work.”
I reach in my shirt pocket and pull out a little notebook I carry. “I need the names of the kids.”
“Whoa. That isn’t going to happen. I told them it would be confidential.”
Suddenly I’m feeling more in charge of myself. “It can’t be that way,” I say. “They’re breaking the law.”
“They’re minors,” he says.
“Any of them eighteen?”
He hesitates. I see by his eyes that he’s calculating his answer, as if he doesn’t want to give away too much of his control over the situation.
“One of them,” he says.
“Then I have to have the name. This is nonnegotiable unless you want me to subpoena your records.”
His eyes bug out and his mouth falls open. “Who do you think you are?”
“I’m the chief of police,” I say with steel in my voice. “You asked me to help you with the drug problem, and this is what it’s going to take.” And I think, Did you imagine the problem was going to be solved by magic? That I wouldn’t arrest anyone using drugs? That you wouldn’t have to be involved?
What I’m thinking must be on my face, because he looks embarrassed all of a sudden, grabs a pad of paper, writes a name down, and shoves it over to me. Now I understand his desire to keep the name to himself. Ben Morgan. The Lutheran preacher’s son. “He’s a senior. I can get him out of class.”
Ben Morgan is a shambling hulk of a kid with shaggy hair that flops over his forehead, and a face like an angel. He has perfected the art of looking innocent. He offers his hand for a handshake. “Howya doing?” His tone makes it sound like we’re old friends.
“Doing okay.” I match his folksy tone. “I have a few matters I want to chat with you about.”
“Oh yeah?” Innocent smile in place, but his eyes slide sideways to take in Principal Gilpin, and back to me.
“Sit down.” I gesture to the other straight-backed wooden chair. He perches on the edge. “What are your plans for after you graduate?” I’m settled back, with my leg crossed at the knee. Casual.
He looks startled. His senior year just began and he sees it stretching in front of him endlessly, no thought as to what lies at the other end.
“College, I guess.”
“You make good grades?”
He shrugs. “Pretty good.”
“Better keep them up. Competition is fierce out there.” I sit forward. “And if you have a drug arrest on your record, it’s going to be hard for a college to get excited about you.”
He shift
s in his chair but keeps his angel face in place. “I expect so.”
“I’ve been hearing rumors this summer that kids are experimenting with drugs. You know anything about that?”
His eyes flick to the principal. Gilpin says, “You might as well tell him.”
“You said you wouldn’t take it to the law.”
“I said as long as it was one incident. But what I hear is that nothing has changed.”
“I don’t know what you mean. It was only that one time. We were trying it out, that’s all.”
“Marijuana?” I ask.
“Just one joint, that’s all.”
“Anything stronger?”
“Hell, I mean heck no.”
I hope he’s telling the truth. “Where’d you get it?”
“Umm, one of the other kids had it.”
“You hiding behind somebody else?”
My first score. The kid’s neck gets red. “I don’t know who it belonged to, all right?” A bit of grievance in his voice.
“What did your folks say when they heard?”
Again the eyes dart toward Gilpin. “They were okay. I mean they didn’t like it, but I promised I wouldn’t do it anymore.”
Now I know he’s lying. His daddy, Reverend Oliver Morgan, is even more straitlaced than the Baptist preacher, and that’s saying a lot. No way would he be “okay” with his son taking even a drag off a marijuana cigarette.
I get up from my seat. “All right, you can go. You know where I am. If you think of anything you want to tell me, give me a call.”
He springs out of his chair, looking like he could shout, “Hallelujah!” and shoots out of the room. I turn on Gilpin. “You didn’t tell his folks? Did you notify any of the parents?”
“I thought we ought to handle it internally.”
“And how well did that work out for you?” I remember now why nobody ever had any respect for Gilpin. He let kids get away with anything.
“That’s why I’ve called you in.” His face is beet red. As fat as he is, I worry that he’s going to have a stroke.
“If I don’t get a little more cooperation from you, the problem is gonna get worse.”