An Unsettling Crime for Samuel Craddock

by Terry Shames

  “You never saw it?”

  The smile tightens, and a look of calculation comes into his eyes. “I saw it when it was being framed out. You know how buildings look smaller when they’re nothing but frame.”

  Eldridge says he’ll be on his way, looking at me like he’s annoyed that I called him out for nothing. When he’s gone, I say, “What was the occasion for you to see the house when it was in the early stages of being built?”

  “No occasion. I stopped by to see if they were serious about building something here.”

  George Cato may be crooked in some way, may be hiding something, but nothing I’ve heard so far gives me any indication that he is. I’m beginning to doubt he had any involvement with the family that lived here.

  “Shall we take a look inside so you can assess the damage?”

  He shakes his head. “I changed my mind. I’m not going to tear the place down. Looks like it was built pretty well, and a good bit of it could be saved. I’ll go over to city hall and find out what I have to do to bring it into compliance with building codes.”

  When we get to his car, he turns and extends his hand. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you.” He starts to open his car door.

  “You planning to visit Owen Montclair while you’re here? I guess you heard about the fire that took out one of his fields.”

  He shakes his head. “Poor devil. He’s tried to make a go of the farm, but I think that fire was the last straw.”

  “You wouldn’t have any idea how it started, would you?”

  He looks startled. “Of course not. I hope you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with that. Why would I?”

  “Montclair told me you wanted him to give up farming so you could get money from the federal government to let the land lie fallow.”

  He crosses his arms and leans against his car. “He’s right, I did want that. But I sure as hell didn’t want it bad enough to burn the man out.”

  “He also told me you’re his half brother.”

  “I’m surprised he admitted it. I guess he told you we kind of had a bet about whether he could make a farm work.”

  “He did.”

  He shakes his head and looks down at the ground. “I’m sorry for him. He’s always been sort of a sucker for a bad idea. He’s the stubbornest man I ever knew.”

  Back at the station, a familiar car is waiting for me in the parking lot. Bonnie Bedichek is inside sharing a cup of coffee with Tilley.

  “I need to catch up with you,” she says. “My deadline is tonight for the next edition.”

  I pour a cup of coffee and sit down. “What is it you need to know?”

  “I understand they transferred Truly Bennett to San Antonio. Was that to get rid of Albert Lamond and his followers?”

  “Newberry is interested in keeping Truly safe, and I think he persuaded Sutherland to make the transfer.” I meet her eyes. She raises her eyebrows. “There might have been some desire to scatter Lamond’s followers.”

  She jots something in her notebook.

  “If you’re printing that, I didn’t say it.”

  She barks a laugh. “For the record, have you got a lead on who committed the murders?”

  “No, but at least I found out the names of the victims.”

  Tilley has been worrying a paperclip, and he drops it and stares at me. “When did that happen?”

  “Saturday.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Bonnie asks.

  I don’t want to tell her that I forgot to keep her up to date. “I only have their names—not even all the victims’ full names—but not who they are or why they were living here. I’m trying to find out more. In fact, it might be helpful if you print their names and ask anybody who knows anything about them to get in touch with me.”

  She likes the idea, so I give her the information.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Tilley is frowning.

  Bonnie and I look at him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “I just wonder if you’re asking for more trouble. Until we know something about them, we ought to be cautious.” I never thought of Tilley as a coward, but he sounds nervous.

  “Cautious? Why?” I ask.

  “We don’t know what kind of people they are. They did get themselves murdered, so they may not have been good people.”

  “Too late,” Bonnie says. “I’m printing it.”

  “It’s your funeral,” Tilley says.

  Bonnie snorts and swings her attention back to me. “I saw George Cato in town this morning. Was he here to see you?”

  “How do you know George?”

  “Samuel, I’m in the newspaper business. I know everybody.”

  “Then you know Owen Montclair?”

  “Of course I do. He’s the man who had a fire on his farm a few days ago.”

  “Did you also know he’s George Cato’s half brother?”

  I can tell by the look on her face that she didn’t know that.

  “Does that have anything to do with the people who got murdered?” she asks.

  “Off the record?”

  “Yes.” She sits up, eagerly.

  “I don’t know.” I laugh.

  “Very funny. There’s something else I need to ask you about. Did you know some girl had a drug overdose this morning at the high school and had to be taken to the hospital?”

  I nod.

  “What the hell!” Tilley lurches forward in his chair. “You never tell me a damn thing.”

  Bonnie ignores him. “The principal clammed up on me. Are you going to do the same?”

  “What do you mean he clammed up?” I ask.

  “Wouldn’t tell me anything. Not the name of the girl or the type of drugs, where she got them, nothing.”

  “Then in that case the answer is yes, I am going to clam up. The girl is a minor, so her information is off-limits.”

  “At least I know that it wasn’t marijuana.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you can’t get an overdose from that. It’s probably pills.” She watches me for a reaction.

  “I couldn’t say. Now, Bonnie, you’re going to have to excuse me. I’ve got a lot to do. Seems like you’ve got plenty to put in the newspaper.”

  “Hints and rumors, that’s what I’ve got.”

  “And the names of the people who died in the fire. That’s something.”

  She eyes me, speculating. “Seems like the only way you’re going to get Truly Bennett out of jail is if you find somebody to put in his place.”

  “Spending all my time talking to you isn’t going to get that done.”

  That sends her on her way. After she leaves, Tilley says, “She’s right, you know. You planning to investigate, or are you leaving it to the THP? If it was me, I’d leave it alone.”

  “I’m waiting to hear back from Luke Schoppe. You met him the day of the fire. He’s the junior Texas Ranger.”

  “Hear back for what?”

  “I asked him to look into some people to see if they have criminal records.”

  “Wait a minute.” He picks up a piece of paper. “He called a while ago. I have the message right here. I forgot about it when me and Bonnie were talking.”

  I call the number on the message, and when I reach Schoppe, he says, “Hold on to your hat.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I found out some things about Duchess Wortham and her family.”

  “That’s great.”

  “You may not think it’s so great when you hear it. Her husband was some kind of big shot in the drug trade. Rumor has it that he sent his wife and family out of Houston to keep them safe. There was a drug dispute going on with one of the suppliers.”

  My heart starts to pound. “Big shot in the drug trade” sounds ominous. “Have you talked to the woman’s husband?”

  “No, and I’m not likely to.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He was gunned down in broad daylight in Houston—two
days after Truly Bennett was arrested.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “Not yet, but looks like it’s part of the drug war he was trying to protect his family from.”

  “At least that’s good news for Truly Bennett,” I say.

  “Why is that?”

  “Nobody can connect him with drug dealers in Houston. When Sutherland hears about the drug war, he’ll have to release Bennett.”

  Schoppe sighs. “The problem is finding evidence.”

  “There ought to be plenty of evidence. If the dealer’s family moved here to get away from a drug dispute, and then ended up dead, clearly the two things are tied together. Any evidence they get in the Houston murder is relevant to this case as well.”

  “I’m not disputing that. The problem is that when I called John Sutherland and told him all this, he dug in his heels. He said he was holding Bennett until somebody finds real evidence.”

  “That won’t take long, though.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m afraid it might take longer than you think. There are other aspects to the case.”

  “What aspects?”

  “Craddock, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Chapter 30

  Ten minutes later, I’m pounding on Ezekiel Bennett’s door. It’s a little before five. He probably spent the day in San Antonio, holding vigil for Truly, and may not be back yet, but I thought I’d try anyway. He answers the door right away.

  “We need to talk,” I say.

  He holds the door wider so I can step in.

  In his tiny, cramped living room lighted only by a small lamp, we sit down and I lay out for him the problem I’m facing. “Unless I can lay my hands on evidence of who killed that family, Truly stays in jail.”

  He nods. “I figured something like that. It’s hard for a black man to get a break from the law. Present company excepted.”

  “Don’t give up.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Help me. Or tell me who can. Somebody around here knows more than they’re saying. That family had only lived here for a short while, but people knew them. Your daughter told me she went to a party there. She couldn’t help me. She’s young and her concern was with the other youngsters. But an adult who was out there must know more about them.”

  “Chief, that may be, but I don’t have a clue who it is.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but somebody does. Why did the family choose Jarrett Creek to settle in? Did they have friends here? Or relatives? Apparently one of the girls was visiting. Where was she from? What was she doing here? Somebody has to know.”

  He rubs his hands along his thighs. “That’s a pack of questions.”

  “I’m asking for help in identifying who might know answers. The black community is close here, isn’t it?”

  “Not exactly. Folks stick to themselves and their families, and their church friends.”

  I look at his bewildered, care-lined face, and I’m sorry I demanded things he can’t provide. He’d do anything to help his son. He’s not keeping things from me deliberately. The people who were killed were not Bennett’s kind of people.

  “Just keep your ears open, and if you hear anything at all that you think would help me, please let me know.”

  “I promise I’ll do that.”

  I’m drawn back yet again to the burned-out house. It has become a symbol for me of all that I don’t know about these murders. I walk around the clearing again, back to where at one time they had a cookout. Maybe it was even during the party they threw. I picture men sitting around on aluminum folding chairs, tipping back beers and laughing. Who was here? Was it all local people, or were they mostly strangers? I saw the shoeprints of women, and I imagine them flirting, gossiping with each other, serving food, dealing with the children. The teenagers huddling together, thinking up mischief.

  I walk back to the house. It’s early in the evening and it’s still stifling hot inside. The night of the murders, two more people ate dinner at the table. Who were they? And where are they now? Who came in and took down the photos of all those people? In the kitchen, I open the cabinets, something I didn’t do before. If looters took the family pictures, they probably took other things. But the cabinets haven’t been looted. They are full of mismatched dishes and one nice little teapot with a sugar and creamer set that looks like it would have been somebody’s treasure. There is a decent stock of food in the larder—a bag of cornmeal, dried beans, potatoes, and canned goods.

  I go back to the gaudy-looking bedroom, and it appears to be untouched. Nothing seems to be missing from the previous time I was here. I pull out one drawer after another in the little chest of drawers, rummaging through the contents and looking for anything that seems out of place. I’m hoping to find photos missed by whoever took the ones in the living room.

  In the girls’ bedroom, I locate a little hole-in-the-wall of a closet and find a shoebox with mementos, including a few photos. Most of them are taken so far away from the subjects that you can’t really see their faces. But there is one that looks like a school photograph, with that nervous look that kids have in school pictures. The girl in the picture is probably twelve. On the back is stamped HISD—Houston Independent School District. I have a moment of satisfaction from finding what I was after, but then I think, “What is it you planned to do with it?” The picture is likely four or five years old. Who would recognize her? And what difference would it make anyway? It’s not like I can go to Houston and find people who knew her.

  The next photo I find features a man who looks to be around forty, and he looks vaguely familiar. He’s stylish-looking in the way of about five years ago, with a big, puffy hairdo and a silky-looking yellow shirt with deep-pointed collar tips. I tuck the two photos in my shirt pocket and go on to the next rooms.

  An hour later, I’ve got two more photos in my possession, found abandoned in a drawer in the living room. One photo is of a woman. She’s grinning into the camera with mischief on her face. The other is a picture of a family, including a man whom I assume is the daddy, since the children favor him. The kids are grinning, but the parents look grim. The woman is the same one whose single photo I found. It’s a few years old. The kids look like preteens and the boy is a baby. I thought the man’s photo I had found in the shoebox might the daddy, but he’s not the same man as in the family photo. So who is he?

  I leave with two thoughts. One, that this family had more money than most of the black people who live in Jarrett Creek. Two, that John Sutherland should have found these photos if he had any interest in really investigating this case. He told me he didn’t take the ones from the wall, and when I asked Schoppe, he said they didn’t either. So who did take them?

  I head back to headquarters to ponder what to do next with these photos. Fewer than one hundred black people live in Darktown. I suppose I could go door to door asking if anybody recognizes the man in the photo. But when I walk into headquarters, I see that I’ve got bigger problems. Hazel Baker, the city administrator who persuaded me to take the job as chief, is sitting in the chair next to my desk, wearing an unhappy expression. She’s a substantial woman with an ample figure and eyes that look like they’re about to pop out of her head. She’s wearing a tight black skirt and a sleeveless white blouse with a bow at the neck. I remember Jeanne remarking at one time that Hazel’s arms were not made for sleeveless blouses. I have to agree, although I would not have thought of it on my own.

  “Hello, Hazel, what brings you to my neck of the woods?” I sit down behind my desk.

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “I could think of more than one reason, so how about if you enlighten me as to the specifics?”

  “You have upset one of our biggest school boosters.” Her mouth snaps shut after that pronouncement.

  “You mean Raymond Ostrand, whose son not only smokes marijuana out in the open but also apparently was responsible for supplying pills to a young girl who had to be taken to the hospi
tal. Is that who you mean?”

  Her eyes bug out farther. “What evidence do you have of this?”

  “The first part? Evidence of my own eyes and nose.” I sketch out the incident in the park. “And regarding the pills, I’m relying on the word of friends of the girl who went to the hospital.”

  “That isn’t evidence that will stand up in court,” she says with a crisp tone.

  “As I recall, when you came to me asking me to take up drug problems in Jarrett Creek, you didn’t tell me certain people were off-limits.”

  “You upset a man that the football team depends on for funds. I thought you had more sense than that.”

  I sigh. “Hazel, the time for me to show that I had any sense would have been if I had turned down the job. But I didn’t do that, and now you’re stuck with me.”

  She points a finger at me and her expression has grown hostile. “We can fire you.”

  “No, actually, you can’t. That would be up to Sheriff Newberry.”

  “If I get enough votes together, he’ll do as we say.”

  “Until then, I’m going to do the job I’m paid to do.”

  “You are a young . . . upstart.” She has to struggle to her feet, which takes some of the wind out of what she said. She stomps across the floor. “We’ll see how long you last.”

  I settle back in my chair after she leaves, feeling pretty good about the exchange. Worse things could happen than losing this job.

  It’s been a long day and I have two options. The most appealing one is to go home, but this is Jeanne’s afternoon to play bridge. Tom stays after school to play ball of one kind or another until it’s too dark to see the ball, and he isn’t likely to welcome me interrupting him. So I’m left with the other option.

  Chapter 31

  George Cato’s car is parked in front of his half brother’s farmhouse, which I more or less expected. The surprise is that the two men are sitting out on the porch in rocking chairs, drinking what looks to be glasses of iced tea.

  Montclair gets up from his chair and walks down the steps to meet me. “What brings you out here?” He looks uneasy, as if I’ve interrupted them plotting something illegal.