by Kieran York
When a chipmunk scurried, Smoky bounded, giving chase. Royce whistled. “Come on back, girl,” she requested.
Perched on top of a boulder, she sat with her chin resting in the bowl of her hand. She observed Smoky’s frisky play within the ring of evergreens. Snow had melted, leaving random patches of white near the murder area. Royce decided to begin methodically with a panorama of the scene.
Pale light blinked through a background of tall conifers. A leaning Ponderosa pine shaded the spot where she recalled standing when she first saw Trish’s body. Snowmelt made the meadowy area mushy now. Smoky romped, and the squishing sound seemed the only hint of life.
Royce inhaled the rarified air, smelling crisp pine and sage scents. She wondered if those were the last fragrances Trish had known and wondered if Trish had noticed as she struggled for breath. She wondered whether Trish had tried to fight, planning an escape route. Escape would have been difficult. Both sides of the area were barricaded by an assortment of thickets and brush.
Royce glanced down at the faded velour moss and russet lichened rocks. There were gleams from mica and from sparkling rose quartz. Seamed from branch to branch of a nearby shrub was a spider’s web. Smoky was frolicking with a pleated pine cone. As she scampered, mushy, matted pine needles scattered.
Smoky had been restored to health. Smoky was romping and springing on the earth. Each new discovery in Smoky’s six-month life brought joy to Royce. Somehow Royce had believed that there was a trade. Smoky’s health for Ray’s freedom. Royce could still see the anguished look on Hertha’s face when Ray was arrested. Royce had led her brother away.
Royce watched as the pup pounced at something. It was off to the side of the murder area. Smoky was sniffing at a downed, gnarled tree trunk.
“Let’s not give a snake an early wake-up call,” Royce suggested. Smoky returned to her side. Royce praised, “Good girl. Goody-four-paws, you came right when I called,” she joked.
Royce’s mind veered to the thought of snakes. Gran had called Luther a sidewinder. The tie between the murders of Trish and Osborn was obvious. Now, she wondered, was her father’s murder somehow related? Was Laramie’s secret a link? Gran had said that Grady cleaned Luther’s clock. Had the sidewinder, Luther, struck back? When Grady was murdered, Luther was twenty-two. And Gwen had told Royce about the rumors that Luther was running drugs. When Yancy became sheriff, the story was he had insisted that Luther clean up his act. But Luther must have kept some of his contacts. According to Valeria, Trish had only been clean for the last year of her life.
Royce looked up to see Smoky returning to the spot of intrigue. The schnauzer nudged, foraged for entertainment. Muzzle to the ground, the pup scratched at the ground stubble. Royce went to investigate. She knelt and retrieved a button from Smoky’s mouth. She recognized it as a uniform button. The ground that had been mashed by the last snowfall now exposed the button.
Royce slipped it into the watch-pocket of her Levi’s. It was probably Yancy’s, she speculated. He had been the only one uniformed at the site. Everyone else had been off duty and in civvies. She would return it to him later. Smoky lurched after another frantic chipmunk. “Come on, Smoky,” Royce shouted. When the pup returned, Royce tickled her ears and then stood. “Give up your chipmunk chase. Looks like we’re both going back empty-pawed.”
***
“Babysittin’ a goddamn rabbit,” Yancy howled as Royce entered the office. “That was the Indian’s alibi.”
“It was true. His sister told us about his watching a sick rabbit.” Royce sat on the edge of the desk. She brushed her uniform trousers and then looked up. “Yancy, it would have been difficult for him to have left the animal clinic and gone to the alley behind the pool hall, waited, cracked the drifter over the head, and then carried him a mile away. And then returned. All without being noticed.”
“We been over that. Wouldn’t have been impossible.” Yancy picked up his Stetson. “We got us our murderer. So get offa that song and dance about the Indian being pure. He’s been in plenty of trouble. And goddamn it, Royce, he was on the scene of the first crime. Our only witness is dead, a day after Ray was released. Way I see it, you’re just lucky he didn’t take off on us after he killed Osborn.”
“He had no reason to run.”
“Bullcrap!” Yancy stood and pushed his bulky body back from the desk. With his arms like tent poles, he leaned across the desk. “You got it in your mind that my baby brother had something to do with this. Well, you’re dead wrong. Now you listen, maybe Indians stick by their own. Protectin’ is natural. We all do that. My brother’s no saint. Never said he was. He’s got him a short fuse and never did have good sense. But he doesn’t have it in him to kill.” He hesitated and then related, “My mama spoiled Luther rotten. Her baby of the family. Cutest little towhead you ever laid eyes on. Luther came apart when Mama died. Just like you felt when your daddy passed. We all took it hard, but Luther. . . .Well, he just fell to pieces. Then he set to strikin’ back. He was only seven when Mama died. I was only four years older. But my Mama told me to take care of Luther. He was mad at the whole damned world. Still is. Never let go.” Yancy put on his Stetson. “Hell, I been trying to do my best by him. But that wouldn’t include coverin’ for him.” Chewing the side of his lip, Yancy murmured, “Even if I’d wanna cover for him. You just don’t know how close we are. But I wouldn’t shield him if I thought he’d gone and killed anyone.”
“I know you’re close.”
“Luther didn’t kill anyone,” Yancy said through clenched teeth. After a moment’s pause, he folded his arms. “Ah hell, what we all need is a little time away from here. This one-day-a-week-off shit just doesn’t make it.”
Royce concurred, “I agree. Yanc, maybe we could figure a way to pull a couple of double shifts so we could each take two days off.”
“Yeah. You try and set it up with Nicky. I just got that new cycle last summer and damn I’m anxious to get it goin'. I’ll be glad for the spring warmup. Never bring it out until the last snow of the season. I say we’ve seen our last storm.”
“With two days off, I could use one day for fishing. With only one day, by the time I get things around the cabin done, I’m bushed. You know Gran and her projects.”
“Real character, Mrs. Madison. Seventy-five and she can barely see over the steering wheel,” Yancy chuckled. “Hope to hell I’m still going strong when I’m her age.”
“You’ll be out on your cycle. Breeze on your knees.”
Yancy hooted, “Hell yes. And I’m goin’ home now and take the tarp off that beauty and check 'er out. Can’t wait for some time off to get 'er prepped and out on the highway.”
“If I see a blur, I’ll ticket you,” she playfully warned.
“Hell, I know better than to speed when you’re on duty.” Yancy tipped down the brim of his hat when he got to the door. “I’ll go to another county if my foot gets heavy.” Yancy’s booming laugh faded as he sauntered down the hall.
Royce pulled out several files and began poring over them.
If only she’d have a revelation, she thought, as she read each notation in each margin. If only she could extrapolate some significant clue. She wondered if Yancy had sanitized the area for Luther. Or maybe Luther had picked up enough about crime from his brother. Maybe he had done his own dirty work. It was all just too clean. If it was drug-related and the mob had done it, they would have probably used a gun. If it concerned Trish coming forward about narcotics, they would probably have shot her in the mouth. But strangulation could be a signal that it was an organized crime execution. Strangulation does cut off one’s air supply.
“I’m not bothering you, am I?” Hertha entered the office.
“No. No, not at all. Grab a chair.” Royce clamped shut the files. “I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”
“I was in visiting Ray. His lawyer is in with him now. I saw you in here alone and hoped you wouldn’t mind if we talked.”
“What does the lawyer
think?” Royce inquired.
“He says it doesn’t look good, but that it’s all circumstantial.”
“The State will say that there’s a preponderance of evidence.”
“Yes. The attorney mentioned that. That and moral turpitude. He suggested a change of venue. But he isn’t certain that it will get that far.”
“The grand jury needs to issue an indictment. Then there’s a trial. And by then maybe we’ll have found the killer.”
Hertha’s eyes flashed. “You’ve heard the expression 'not worth a plugged Ute'? How is the killer to be found if no one believes that there is a need to look? Everyone thinks Ray did it. I know that my brother wouldn’t have killed anyone.”
“The sheriff just said the same thing about his brother.” Royce wanted to reach for Hertha’s hand. She wanted to comfort her friend. “Yancy told me that his brother had been coddled by their mother. Then when she died, Luther became bitter.”
“Ray’s real father died when he was a baby. Our stepfather married our mother when Ray was ten. He beat Ray unmercifully.” Hertha’s face contorted as she fought to hold back tears. “My stepfather was an evil man. I was taken from the home and placed in a special school when I was fourteen, so I wasn’t subjected to his cruelty. But Ray was.” Her eyes held pools of tears. But Hertha refused to blink. “If you don’t find the killer,” she murmured as her mouth twisted the words out, “Ray could spend the rest of his life in prison. Royce, for Ray, coming to Timber City was a way of being released from another prison. The prison of poverty and prejudice.”
Royce looked away when the lone teardrop rolled down Hertha’s face. She pretended not to notice Hertha’s rush to wipe it away. “I’m going to be doing everything I can.”
Hertha stood. Her shoulders automatically stiffened. “Royce, you’re all I have to believe in now.” Their eyes corded. “And you look so worn out.”
“I’ve been putting in some overtime on the case. Yancy suggested that we get some extra time off by doubling up on shifts. Maybe you’d like to go fishing. Like we planned.”
“I’d love that. The weather is warming up.”
“As soon as our schedule is out, I’ll drop by and we can make plans. By the way, how’s the sick bunny?”
“It survived.” As they walked to the doorway, Hertha repeated, “I’m looking forward to a day of fishing.”
She reached and straightened Royce’s uniform epaulet. As she did, Royce inhaled the sweet essence of fresh alpine flowers. “I look forward to it too.” Royce pressed the words from her wobbling lips, “Yes, it will be good for both of us.”
When Hertha’s soft fingertip touch left Royce’s shoulder, Royce found herself unable to step back. Even the smile that creased her lips was unintentional.
Hertha asked, “Will your lover be coming with us?”
“No.” Royce felt a stall of emotions. She wanted to explain Valeria in one brief sentence, and knew that was impossible. “She doesn’t like fishing.”
“We’ll just need to catch our limit so that there’s plenty for everyone.”
***
A sure sign of spring, Royce mused wistfully as she entered the Times office. The leaded glass transom was cracked open to allow in the spring sunshine.
Royce greeted Cinnamon with a hurried hug. “Cinnamon, I wish all the women rushed to greet me the way you do.” The Irish setter’s metronome tail swayed.
Gwen snickered. “You want women jumping on you and licking your body? Hell’s bells, you don’t want much, do you?”
With a blush, Royce shyly digressed, “So what’s news?”
“Nadine is in bed with her traditional spring cold. And after two killings, this town is a firestorm of opinion.” Replacing her eyeglasses, Gwen rocked back in her chair. “Homicidal maniac may be on the loose.”
“So not everyone believes that Ray is guilty?” Royce pried.
“Nope.” Gwen’s eyebrow lifted. “There was a time in Colorado when Reverend Colonel John Chivington’s battle cry gathered a crowd. He wanted all Indians killed. Gods and guns. He was a flawed concern. Today we aren’t frightened of Indian attacks, but we still have that fear of anyone unlike ourselves.”
“Mom doesn’t believe Ray could have done it.”
“Molly has always been colorblind. At least now the Chivingtons of the world aren’t allowed a microphone. Back in frontier days, journalism often served to exacerbate the tensions. A sinister business. Guess that’s why I’m so proud of this paper and what my people did. They held tough to some pretty unpopular ideals.” She sighed and glanced up at the wall of awards. “Not that my philosophic judgment calls are ensuring that the Times continues.”
“No brighter money picture?”
“If anything, darker.” Stretching, she reached for her legal note pad. “By the way, I got the skinny on Peakview Investments. Owner, Ed Francis, must shower with steel wool soap pads. Clean to the gizzard. Hell’s bells, that’s something for an investment firm. Also, according to my sources, Peakview is in the process of backing out on the Chandler bid. After the murder, they figure there might be scandal. They’d wanted it for a cross-country ski lodge and resort. Now they think the property might be tainted by this mess. That excludes them.”
“It may be a smoke screen. Who are the sources you mentioned?”
“Remember I told you I worked as a journalist in Texas for a couple of years before moving back up here? Well,” she divulged with a wink, “all my ex’s live in Texas. As the song goes. Hell,” Gwen grinned broadly and then revealed, “both my ex’s live in Texas. And speaking of women, talk to me about Hertha.”
“She’s very nice.”
“She’s very interested in you. She wanted an unabridged biography when I took Ginger in yesterday. Damned fur balls. At any rate, she tells me you’re working on her brother’s case. She knows you’ll see that justice is done. She was very excited about an upcoming fishing trip. Roycie, let’s hear it all?”
“We’re going fishing the first of the week. Got the duty roster set and I’m taking Monday off. So if the weather holds...”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“I buy you lesbian how-to books and you must eat the pages for roughage before you can read them. Which is not how the instructions go. She really likes you.”
“I like her. Gwen, don’t give me that look. It’s platonic. A friendship.” Royce squirmed in the rocker. “We have similar interests.”
“You really wowed her.”
“Hertha said that?”
“Didn’t need to.”
“You read a lot into things.”
“You don’t read a lot, period,” Gwen chaffed. “Now, what else?”
“What else?”
“Spit it out. What else can we do for you? Those tattle-tale eyes are telling me there’s more.”
“A favor. I’d like to look through some file clippings. Check the photo morgue and the stacks. I’d like to research my father’s murder.”
“You want to spend your one morning off in the stacks?”
“And your personal file on the murder.”
“Royce, there’s a file at the Sheriff’s Department, and it is supposed to be far more detailed than mine.”
“I went through it yesterday, for the first time. The file is incomplete. I don’t have a picture of what occurred.”
“Yancy was pretty upset when your dad was killed. He wasn’t ready to fill Grady’s boots and he knew it. Admitted it. Never has been a record keeper. I guess it stands to reason that he didn’t get everything down at the time. After all, Grady was like a father and a brother combined.” Gwen stood and led Royce through a long, narrow room that had once been a closet. From floor to ceiling, the double row of shelves was jammed with stacks of yellowed, bundled newspapers. Dates were written on the edges of the boards. Gwen slipped her eyeglasses on and scouted the correct stack. “Here. Circa the year, before and after. The clippings and photo morgue are in the file cabine
t in the back room. Just look under Madison.”
Royce carried the bundles to a large table in the news room. As she sat, she thanked Gwen. “Thanks for helping. I’m glad I can confide in you about this. It’s not something I can talk about at the department.”
“Glad to be your sounding board. You know how outspoken I am. I’ll always give you my input.”
“When my father was murdered, was there anything that didn’t make it into print?”
“For one thing, there was a rumor that Grady had stumbled onto a drug ring. I’d hate to see you mess with that one. Drugs were never around here much. Up at the resorts they were rampant. Now, add cocaine to that and it gets dangerous fast. I hate the idea, but if someone wants to bake their nasal cavity and their brain, it’s up to them. My scathing commentary is perhaps too simplistic. If decent folks refused to mess with the stuff, and insist that those who do are made responsible for their acts, it will eventually go away. No more cry-babying around to the courts for leniency. You steal, hurt anyone . . .whatever, and you’re locked up. Busted for any crime, and you serve. Shame on the criminal. No matter what substance is abused, it’s prison.”
“What about the argument of societal responsibility?”
“I believe in independent responsibility to and for one’s self and one’s actions. Prohibition didn’t work because people wanted booze. No one can save Laramie by cutting off the brew. Hell’s bells, he’d chew roots. What you can do is educate people to be responsible. No-excuse kind of world. But that’s the reality of it. Well, that’s my editorial for the day. Maybe that’s my 'Vine’ for the week. Keep your nose clean. Keep your butt clean. Lock your doors and read the Times.'"''
“And the file on my father?”
“Royce, if you’re intent on this investigation, you’d better realize there’s an element of danger in knowing too much. There’s something very perverse about all this. There is,” she warned, “a corrosive element. And it might not be in your best interest to be snooping into that file. Would you take my suggestion and forget about it?”