by Terry Shames
“I guess you’re pretty satisfied,” Sutherland says to me when I walk in.
“What’s makes you think so?”
“You were worried about your boy Bennett, and now he’s got half the colored people in the state of Texas gathered out there.” He makes a sweeping gesture toward the windows.
“Quite a crowd,” I say. I don’t want to goad Sutherland, but I also don’t intend to let him bully me.
“Craddock, take a seat,” Newberry says. “With Sutherland here, I think you need to tell both of us what you were going to tell me. You said you had the identification of the people who got killed.”
Even though it doesn’t make me happy to include Sutherland, I tell them the names and what I’ve learned about them. I never thought I’d want to hoard information, but I feel jealous that I got it on my own and Sutherland will no doubt claim credit.
“Who did you get this information from?” It’s a demand, not a request from Sutherland.
“I’m going to keep that to myself.”
“Oh no you’re not. This is my investigation and I need to question the source myself.”
“You can question the sources you find.”
“Now you tell me who you got it from, or I’ll have you thrown in jail for withholding evidence, right next to your friend Bennett.”
“You afraid it’ll be too hard finding your own sources? I haven’t noticed you putting yourself out much.”
Sutherland gets up so fast, his chair almost tips backward. “By God, at least I made an arrest.”
I have to look up to talk to him. “Just any arrest? Is that what satisfied you? Do you care whether Truly Bennett is guilty, or do you just want to strut the fact that you have an arrest to your credit?”
“Whoa now.” Newberry is also still seated. “Let’s dial it back. The important thing is we’ve got names of the victims. Craddock, you say they were from Houston. You know why they moved to Jarrett Creek?”
“I heard a rumor that they moved to get away from a jealous husband, but I don’t know whether that’s true,” I say.
“That’s the kind of thing an amateur would take at face value,” Sutherland says with a sneer. “I’d have pushed to find out more.”
I’ve had enough. I jump to my feet. “It’s more information than you bothered to get, even though you’re the one with all the manpower. I haven’t had time to look into why they are there. I only found this out yesterday. If it was me in charge, I’d find out where they lived in Houston, who they knew, and what their acquaintances had to say about why they pulled up stakes and moved to a small town.” My voice is raised, and I don’t care. “I’d also talk to the owners of the property where the house was located. But of course, I’m an amateur. What do I know? And the landowners are wealthy big shots, and you probably don’t want to poke that bear, so it’s a lot easier to hassle the people in my town.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Sutherland moves chest to chest with me.
I’d like nothing better than to get into it with him, fists and all, but Newberry says sharply, “Stop. I mean it. Stop. Both of you. Sit down. We have bigger things to deal with. What are we going to do with that crowd outside, for one thing?”
I come back to my chair and sit down, knowing that the last man standing looks like the bigger fool. Sutherland looks like he could easily send me straight to hell, but he sits, too.
“I told you, I’m going to move Bennett to the jail in San Antonio,” Sutherland says. “I doubt all those folks out there are inclined to follow him all the way there.”
“So you really think you’ve got enough to prosecute him?” Newberry asks.
“Damn right, I do.”
“What all do you have?” I know full well he’s not going to give me the time of day, but I’m still feeling the glow from asserting myself and trying not to think of it as showing off.
Sure enough, he stares at me.
“It’s a legitimate question, John,” Newberry says.
“It’s legitimate for the district attorney, not for some hick cop.”
The comment should aggravate me, but I understand that it means I’ve gotten to him, so instead I feel cocky. I’ve scored more points than I ever thought possible. I sit forward and address Newberry. “If you don’t have any further need of me, I’m going to be on my way. You’ve heard my information.”
Newberry sits back and pokes his lips with his thumb, thinking. “Keep me informed of what you find. I don’t want you biting off too much.”
I nod to him and get up. “Sutherland, did you take a bunch of photos out of the house where those people were killed?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know. To investigate the crime, maybe?”
Sutherland turns his head to look at me, and his eyes could be the eyes of a big old rattler. “If you think you’re going to keep information from me, you’ve got another think coming. I’m going to tear your little town apart until I get to the source.”
“Be my guest,” I say. And then I point to him. “But be advised, I’m going to be doing my own investigation, and when I find out who really killed those people, it’s not going to be Truly Bennett.”
I walk out to the sound of Sutherland yelling, “By God, you keep your nose out of my investigation.” I don’t give him the satisfaction of slamming the door behind me. I close it softly and I walk softly, but my heart is pounding and my knees are wobbly. How the hell am I going to follow through with what I said?
Chapter 27
When I get back to Jarrett Creek, the reporters are gone, which is a relief. There’s a note from Tilley saying he’s off doing what used to be the normal work of a small-town cop, pursuing the case of the stolen hubcaps.
With a few moments of quiet, I come face-to-face with the promise I’ve made not only to myself, but to others: to find out what really happened out there in Cato Woods. My mamma dwelled so seriously on my shortcomings that I’ve never felt the need to do the same. But right now I feel the weight of my lack of experience. I did well enough in school, not because I’m smarter than average, but because I persisted. I know how to make lists and to work my way through them. I haven’t had to do that much lately, but now I fall back on that old habit.
I write down the names of every person related to the case. Those connected with the Cato property: Ronald Cato, his son, George, and his stepson, Owen Montclair. The squatters: Duchess, Lily, Alice, and Bobby Wortham; and Cathy, the girl with them, whose last name I still don’t know. The strangers on the sideline: Blue Dudley, Freddie Carmichael, and Beaumont Penny. At that I’m stuck. “One foot in front of the other,” I mutter to myself. I’m going to see George Cato tomorrow, and I’ve asked for information from the Texas Rangers on most of the people on the list.
I don’t know what Sutherland intends, but I feel like it’s only fair to warn Alvin Penny that Sutherland may get onto him. As I get up to go over there, the phone rings. It’s Charlie Ostrand’s daddy. I forgot to call him back.
“I was afraid you were going to ignore my call.” There’s an edge to his voice, which I recognize as someone who thinks he’s entitled to special treatment.
“I’ve had a busy morning. You’re on the list.”
“I imagine you have had a busy time, considering what happened last week in your town.”
“I assume you called to discuss my encounter with your son?”
“Tell you what, I can take a little time off. How about if you drive up here and we can meet.”
I laugh. He wants me to come to him. “I’m in Bobtail sometime Wednesday. Maybe we can have a minute then.”
Silence greets my suggestion. “You understand your predecessor didn’t seem to have any trouble finding time for me.”
It takes me a second to parse what that means. “What was the nature of your meetings with him?”
“I don’t see that that’s of any importance.”
“Might be, if it concerned your son.”
“I don’t care for your implication.”
“No implication intended. I’m asking flat out if your son has been in trouble before.”
“Charlie is a good kid. I don’t know if you’re aware, but he’s the quarterback on the varsity football team, and that puts him under a lot of pressure. He might let off a little steam every now and then.”
“Surely you aren’t suggesting I should overlook the fact that your son was in possession of an illegal substance?”
“Do you have proof of that?”
“I do. The only proof I need—I saw him with my own eyes. I thought a word to your son was enough to settle the matter between us. Apparently he didn’t think so, and he brought you into this. The next time I have an encounter with your son and his friends, a warning might not be sufficient.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s an appeal to your fatherly duty to see to it that your son stays out of trouble.”
“I don’t know who you think you are, but this conversation is ended. And if I were you, I’d be looking for another job.” He hangs up.
At that moment, Tilley comes through the door, grinning. The grin dies when he sees the look on my face. “What happened?”
“Tilley, do I look any different than I did last Friday?”
He looks confused. “Not that I can see. What do you mean?”
“I’ve had two different people today ask me who I think I am. I’m checking to see if I got lost somewhere.”
He laughs and goes over to pour himself a cup of coffee. “You been stepping out of line?”
“What line would that be?”
He peers over his cup at me. “Usually, when somebody asks a question like that, they’re not happy—because a small-town cop is supposed to be Officer Friendly and they think you’ve gotten all official on them.”
“Sounds about right. You came in here with a big grin on your face. What’s going on?”
“Those hubcaps?”
“Tell me something good.”
“Clinton Walls had his tires rotated last week, and the station forgot to put the hubcaps back on when they finished the job. Took him five days to notice.”
I sigh. “Maybe that’s all we’re good for.”
“Could be.”
I leave and go over to talk to Alvin Penny, but he isn’t home. I leave my card with a note on the back to call me.
It’s lunchtime, and I usually go home for a bite, but I stop by the café for a bowl of chili. I’m halfway through when I look up to see that a man I went to high school with is approaching my table, his straw hat in his hand. “Can I talk to you?” he asks.
I gesture to the chair across the table, and he sits down stiffly. His face is bright red, and he seems struck speechless.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” I say.
He clears his throat. “I don’t come to town much. I’m working my daddy’s farm over in Burton. He had a heart attack last year, and my wife and I moved onto the homeplace to help out.”
“I’m sure he appreciates that. Something I can do for you?”
“I heard Truly Bennett got arrested for murdering them people and burning the house down.”
“He is a suspect,” I say.
He looks around us and leans forward with his voice lowered. “I don’t want to stir anything up, and I’m no n . . . I mean I’m not partial to black people or anything like that.” He pauses and swallows.
“I understand.”
He chews on his lower lip like he’s screwing up his courage. “I’ve had to hire Truly a few times to help out, and to be downright honest with you, I don’t see how he could have done nothing like that. I’ve tried to work it out in my mind, and I don’t see it.”
“Thank you for coming forward. I believe a mistake has been made, but it might take some time to undo it.”
He lets his breath out in a rush, like he was afraid I was going to argue with him. “All right, then. Like I said, I didn’t want to stir things up, but I think sometimes you have to speak up. He’s a hard worker is all I’m saying.” He stumbles to his feet.
I get to my feet to shake his hand. Clearly it wasn’t easy for him to say his piece, and I appreciate it.
Back at work, I call Luke Schoppe to see if he’s gotten anywhere with his inquiries, but he hasn’t. I’m too restless to stay in, and the call from Charlie Ostrand has given me an idea. I drive slowly past the high school. It’s midafternoon, early in the school year, so school is quiet—no groups of kids hanging out, looking bored, as there will be in a few months. The football field is one block past the high school. It’s a fine old structure of local stone that looks indestructible.
I ease by, checking out the site Charlie described as the drop point for the drugs, seeing if there’s a good surveillance position. Ostrand said Charlie is on the football team. He didn’t look like he had the physique for it, and if he smokes a lot of marijuana, he probably doesn’t have the temperament for it either. So how did he get on the team, and as a quarterback, no less?
I may be wasting my time. My guess is that if Charlie ran to his daddy complaining of being picked on, he’d also complain to whoever is selling the weed, so the drop off will be changed.
I wonder what kind of person sells drugs to high school kids. The kind that wants money, that’s who. I picture myself doing a stakeout, but now I realize I can’t be hanging around here all night, watching for a drug dealer. It’s time to delegate something more than looking for lost hubcaps.
Since I’m at the high school, I go into the principal’s office and ask if Gilpin is around. His secretary talks to him on the intercom and says, “Go on in. He can spare a few minutes.”
He doesn’t bother to get up, but waves a hand for me to sit down. I tell him I put the fear of God into kids smoking weed at the park yesterday.
“Did you take names?”
“Only one. Kid by the name of Charlie Ostrand.”
He blanches. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“His daddy called this morning and tried to bully me.”
“I, uh, hope you didn’t give him a lot of trouble about Charlie.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Mr. Ostrand is a big sports booster. I’d hate to have him upset. He buys the uniforms and helps pay for transportation to away games. Without him, we’d have money trouble.” Which might account for why his scrawny kid is the quarterback.
“You’re telling me you want me to back off the Ostrand boy?”
“No, no . . . well, maybe a little.”
“Gilpin, either you want this drug problem handled or you don’t. Which is it?”
He shifts his bulk so that his chair squeaks in protest. “Of course I want it handled. But I want it done with some delicacy.”
“You mean it depends on who is involved.”
He pulls a big handkerchief out of his back pocket and wipes his forehead. “I’m trying to give you a dose of reality. It’s a matter of balance.”
“You know, when I took this job, it never occurred to me that it was political in nature.”
He smiles. “I never thought being a high school principal would be either, but it sure is. Mr. Ostrand is one of those people the school calls on when we need funds that the state doesn’t see fit to give us. His son won’t be here forever. He’s a senior. But if we handle this right, Mr. Ostrand’s good will could last for years.”
I should be annoyed, but I appreciate Gilpin’s honesty. I leave him with the promise to do my best to tiptoe around Charlie Ostrand and his daddy.
Chapter 28
I thought George Cato would look like a businessman, wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase. So when he walks in at ten o’clock Tuesday morning, I think he’s some farmer I haven’t met before. He’s dressed in blue jeans and a blue denim work shirt and work boots. His hair is longish, and his face is tanned, like he spends a lot of time in the sun.
“Excuse the way I look,�
� he says after he introduces himself. “I figured as long as I was down here, I might as well hire a couple of men and start cleaning up that house. We’ll have to tear it down.”
“Not so fast,” I say. “That’s a crime scene, and we may need to get more evidence out of it.”
His smile reaches his eyes, and the skin around them crinkles in a merry way. “I called the highway patrol, and they said they were done with the building. Same with the fire department.” He sits back in his chair and folds his hands across his flat belly. “But I’ll tell you what, I’ll work around whatever you want to do. Why don’t we go on out there, and you can point out any areas you want us to keep away from.”
“I appreciate that. Can I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Shoot.”
“Do you have any information about the people who lived there?”
“No.”
“Were you aware that a house had been built there?”
He squirms around and resettles in his chair. “I admit I did know. I realize I should have made the old boy who built it get permits, but he said it was going to be up to code and I didn’t have time to deal with it. I was working on a big office-building project in Dallas. I kind of blew it off. I suppose I ought to go to the city and pay whatever fines they want to assess.”
“How did they get water and utilities out to the house without a permit?”
“It’s on a septic system, so they didn’t have to do a sewer hookup. As for water and electricity, I’m afraid I wasn’t a party to that.”
“Who built the house?”
“I don’t know the name of the builder, but it was arranged by a real-estate man I’m acquainted with by the name of Blue Dudley. He said he had a business partner who wanted to put up a small house.”
“Did he say who was going to live there?”
He screws up his face and runs a palm across his forehead. “That’s what I get for having too many irons in the fire. He said the man he was building it for had a wife and some kids, and he wanted to move them out of Houston because he thought they’d be safer in a small town than in the city.”