by Nat Williams
Bachelor started the patrol car and headed away from Larkin-Helms back toward the edge of town.
“Twenty-four seven. Like maybe a business that’s open twenty-four-seven.”
“Jack’s Shack,” Carroll said.
“I like the way you think. Because you think the way I do. Keep your fingers crossed.”
Bachelor was in a contemplative mood.
“I don’t think either one of us, when we were in high school, would have imagined we’d be doing this.”
“What? Drive around aimlessly, in a funny looking car with no particular place to go?” Carroll said.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know, Chuck Berry.”
“What about Chuck Berry?”
“You know. No particular place to go.”
“I don’t get it,” Bachelor said.
“I’m surprised. Or maybe not.”
“OK, you have to spill the beans now. Either that or I’m pulling over and you’re walking the rest of the way.”
“It’s the song. No Particular Place to Go. Chuck was singing about how he couldn’t get his seat belt off, so he couldn’t make out with his date.”
“Gee, I feel so enlightened now,” Bachelor said. “Thanks, Wolfman Jack. I was hoping it was something more interesting. Now, what were we talking about?”
“About how we didn’t imagine we’d be doing what we’re doing. That we thought we’d be doing something different.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Carroll said. “I thought I’d maybe get into some kind of trade. You know, like welding or something. I liked Mr. Carson’s industrial trades class.”
“Why didn’t you? Be a welder or something, I mean.”
“Not sure. I guess I wasn’t into welding as much as I thought. I started to warm up to the idea of being a cop. You remember Old Joe Legrand, don’t you?”
“Yeah, the Barney Fife of C-Camp. That’s what we thought at the time.”
“Isn’t that something? We made fun of him. But looking back, he was the perfect cop.”
“He was,” Bachelor said. “Old Joe never let the position get to him. If anything, he shied away from the badge. He just loved helping people. And if that meant getting the bad guy, he could do that as well as any of ‘em.”
“Better than any of ‘em.”
“Yeah. Better. He never looked for trouble, but was always ready for it.”
“Is he still alive?”
“I believe so,” Carroll said. “I think he’s living in Florida. At The Villages. I don’t know if that’s the one, but it’s one of those kinds of places. Swimming pools, golf carts, bingo, tennis courts. By the way, how the hell do people in their seventies and eighties play tennis? I’m not even fifty and I get winded at croquet.”
“You’ve never played croquet in your life.”
“So you say.”
“Well, he deserves a good retirement,” Bachelor said.
“Yeah, there’s a word for that. Life.”
Bachelor wheeled the squad car into the parking lot of Jack’s Shack. Carroll pointed to a camera mounted on the façade.
They entered the store and approached a stocky redhead in her forties standing behind the counter. She wore a gray T-shirt loosely covered by a light sweater with no buttons. Purple-rimmed reading glasses hung on a string around her neck. A plastic name tag let the customers know that her name is Peggy. A man was browsing the beer cooler at the back.
“Hi. Need something?”
“Do your security cameras work?” Carroll said.
“They do.”
Bachelor looked around.
“You have cameras inside too. Do you mind if we take a look at some footage?”
“Just a minute,” Peggy said. “Let me get the manager.”
She walked into a small office behind the counter and said something. A large woman with sharp features and a take-no-prisoners expression emerged from the office.
“Doris Ball,” she said, extending her hand to Bachelor and Carroll. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“We were wondering whether we could look at some video footage.”
“Sure. Follow me.”
She led them to the back room. The three barely fit in the cramped office that doubled as a storeroom. Binders sat precariously atop a metal file cabinet. Cases of beer, candy bars and cigarettes took up much of the precious floor space.
“The camera behind the counter is supposed to keep track of customer transactions, but the real purpose is to make sure my workers aren’t sticking the profits in their private parts. The other interior one has a pretty good wide shot of the whole store. And we have one in the parking lot.”
“Can you cue up Saturday, August the third? Starting around midnight Friday?” Bachelor said.
Doris worked her magic on the laptop computer. It was obvious she had done this before. She hit play, and the waiting game began.
Bachelor and Carroll looked intently at the video, occasionally asking Doris to skip forward, back, hold an image or expand the resolution.
“Right there!” Carroll said, pointing to the computer screen. “There’s the truck!”
A small, white pickup truck pulled into the parking lot, captured by the exterior camera. It appeared to be the one sitting at the home of Jake Alvis. The doors opened and two males got out and entered the convenience store. According to the time stamp it was 1:25 a.m.
They switched to the inside cameras, which captured the faces of the customers who had been in the pickup truck. One came into view when he walked up to the cash register, where he appeared to be ordering a pack of cigarettes.
“Stop it right there,” Bachelor said to Doris, who hit a key that froze the face on the computer screen.”
They studied the face.
“He looks familiar,” Carroll said.
“I know exactly who it is,” Doris said. “Manny Tucker.”
“Who’s that?”
“He’s a thief. We caught him shoplifting a couple weeks ago. He bought a pint of Fireball, then on his way out, threw a bag of peanuts in the sack.”
“Then we should have information on him,” Bachelor said. “That case doesn’t ring a bell, though.”
“It wouldn’t. We didn’t call you guys,” Doris said. “He gave me some bullshit line about how he was going to pay for it, that he was still doing some shopping. I didn’t believe him for a minute, but he paid for the peanuts and apologized. I told him I wouldn’t turn him in, but if I caught him trying to lift something again I was going to sit on him until the cops got here.”
Doris looked like a woman who meant what she said. Carroll was thinking that he wouldn’t want to steal anything from her.
“You know, I believe he is familiar,” Carroll said, turning to Bachelor. “Seems like we’ve had some dealings with him, quite a while ago.”
Bachelor thought for a moment.
“They call him Tuck, right?”
“I think so,” Doris said.
CHAPTER 22
Bachelor and Carroll’s conversation was interrupted on the way back to the courthouse, when an incoming call was announced by the dashboard phone of the Chevrolet Traverse SUV that served as the sheriff’s squad car. The display indicated that it was the coroner’s office. He tapped the screen.
“Bachelor.”
“Got some results, Frank,” Ben Taggart said via speakerphone.
“Great. Can’t wait for you to spill ‘em out, Ben. My deputy, Jerry Carroll, is with me.”
Bachelor and Taggart had crossed paths often and had developed a close working relationship. They first met years ago, when Taggart spoke at a gathering of police cadets as part of a course on forensics. It was one of those sessions that could have been dull but Taggart spiced it up with his self-deprecating humor and observations about what he called the “inside job” of police work.
“The term body of evidence takes on a different meaning in my line of work,” he had told the gathering.
Besides being a medical professional who fell just short of physician, Taggart was an expert in several other fields, including ballistics. He had an uncannily extensive knowledge of firearms. His private collection was legendary. He could enthrall a group for hours on end with his mastery of the history of guns, from the days of hand cannons used during the 14th century Huan Dynasty to the blunderbusses fired by Caribbean pirates to the 1946 invention of the AK-47 by the most celebrated and gifted tinkerer in the history of the Soviet Union - Mikhail Kalashnikov.
“We recovered five 7.65 mm slugs,” he said. “The doctor got one in the right temporal region that lodged in the left cheekbone. One entered his shoulder and shattered his clavicle, and one entered his right hand, exited, then went through his femur. The head shot could certainly be the fatal one. But I’m not sure if it came before or after the others. Could’ve been the coup de gras. Or not.”
“And Mrs. Van Okin?” Bachelor said.
“Two dead center in her heart.”
“Anything else?”
“There was stippling on the Doc’s temple. Close shot.”
“Is that it?”
“Judging from post-mortem tests, including measure of body temperature and presence of rigor mortis in the smaller muscles of the face and neck, we believe they were shot just a few hours before the bodies were discovered by the housekeeper.”
“Nurse. Morella Watson.”
“Whatever. Anyway, there were no obvious defensive wounds. It’s like they didn’t see it coming.”
“That’s an unusual caliber,” Bachelor said.
“And one with the distinction of starting one world war and ending another.”
“How’s that?”
Bachelor couldn’t help but get wrapped up in Taggart’s Mensa meanderings. He was probably the smartest person he had ever known, filled with knowledge of just about everything.
“It was the round fired by Gavrilo Princip, the Bosnian separatist who put the bullet from a 1910 FN Browning into Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914. That assassination launched the Great War.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar with that. I went to school when they used to teach history. What about ending World War II?”
“Well, not the very end of the war, but it pretty much symbolized the end of the war in Europe. The handgun used by Hitler to commit suicide in the Berlin bunker was a Walther PPK, which used the same round. Hitler’s glorious demise convinced even the most fanatical Nazis that the gig was up.”
“So, what type of weapon you think was used here?”
“The 7.65 mm round – that’s what it’s called in Europe; it’s usually referred to as the .32 ACP in the states – is used in several different firearms. But, for my money, I’m thinking these came from an uncommon model.”
“Like what?”
“I wouldn’t know for sure until I have the gun. But I’m getting the feeling that it might match an Ortgies.”
“A what?”
“Ortgies. A German pistol used in the inter-war period. They were well-built and very reliable.”
“An officer’s sidearm?”
“Not really. They didn’t get much military usage. Mostly shooting competitions. Some were carried by Norwegian prison guards.”
“I’ll have to make you my phone a friend guy if I ever get a firearms question on Who Wants to be a Millionaire,” Bachelor said.
“Millionaire,” Carroll butted in.
“That’s what I said.”
“No, it’s just called Millionaire now. They dropped the other part.”
Bachelor looked at Carroll and shook his head. “I wish you had some useful information tucked away in that brain of yours.”
“Actually your partner’s right, Frank,” Taggart said. “They just call it Millionaire now. I guess the old name was too long to show up on cellphones. Anyway, let me know if you need anything else.”
“Yeah, I have something. Where the hell is the gun?”
“Great question. Fortunately for me and unfortunately for you, it’s not my job to figure that one out. I’ll be playing golf this week, and you’ll be a sweating, frustrated public servant hounded by news people, the state’s attorney’s office, the victim’s families, and some wingnut who thinks he has this thing figured out and wants to make sure you hear him out, and also listen to his conspiracy theories about the Deep State, the 9-11 attacks and Beyonce’s birth certificate.”
“Screw you,” Bachelor said. “Oh, and thanks.”
“Anytime. Soon as we get this figured out we’ll have a thick steak and cold beer at Parker’s.”
“I’ll buy,” Bachelor said.
“Godspeed,” Taggart replied.
Bachelor pushed the red END button.
“The shootout at the Van Okin Corral,” Carroll said.
“Yeah, except no guns, no corral and no timeless sepia-toned photographs of bad guys laid out in coffins pine boxes.”
“And no Val Kilmer,” Carroll added.
“Maybe we’ll bring him in for questioning,” Bachelor said. “Ask him how he was able to squeeze off three shots from a double-barrel shotgun without reloading. Anyway, this is getting curiouser and curiouser.”
Carroll scrunched his eyebrows.
“That sounds familiar. What movie was that line in?”
Bachelor glared at his deputy.
“Have you ever read a book? Or even heard about books? You know, the things with pages and words and stuff?”
“Just tell me where it comes from.”
“Alice in Wonderland. Lewis Carroll. You know, your British namesake.”
“Yeah, my mom used to joke that we were related, but were left out of the will.”
“That’s probably more of a joke than your mom realized. Lewis Carroll was his pen name. And he was broke. Maybe you are related to a pen name. That would explain a lot.”
Carroll took a swig from an energy drink.
“It would explain a lot if we could figure out how an elderly couple well respected in the community got murdered execution-style. What do you think’s going on here?”
“I don’t know,” Bachelor said. “This is a strange one. How do you feel? You know, confidence-wise.”
Carroll didn’t hesitate.
“I feel like we’ll work our asses off for as long as it takes. It might take a while, but we’ll crack the case.”
Bachelor turned the squad car left as he headed for the office.
“Can’t agree more. Especially about the ‘might take a while’ bit.”
The phone rang again. The display indicated it was Vernon Hilliard, the Gilbert County state’s attorney.
“Bachelor.”
“How’s it going, Frank? I got people breathing down my neck.”
“Join the crowd. Actually, we just got some very interesting information.”
Bachelor related Taggart’s findings.
“What do you make of it?” Hilliard said.
“Don’t know.”
“Well, keep me posted.”
“Sure will.”
Bachelor punched the button, ending the call. He pulled into the parking lot of the courthouse.
CHAPTER 22
Bachelor and Carroll were back at the sheriff’s office checking the computer. They were searching for records on one Manny Tucker. It didn’t take long to get a hit.
“Here it is,” Bachelor said, looking at the screen through his reading glasses. “Manuel Alonso Tucker. Twenty-eight years old. Active driver’s license, a couple of moving violations, a drug case that was tossed and two burglary charges. The first was reduced to a misdemeanor. The second one put him on probation for a year. He’s been clean for a while now.”
“Looks like it’s time for a Tucker hunt,” Carroll said, grabbing his hat.”
Bachelor squinted at the screen.
“Last known address is 424 Collins Avenue.”
They pulled up in front a small house with brown asphalt siding, the type tha
t was popular about 70 years ago. The concrete steps leading up to the front door were crumbling at the corners.
The officers didn’t need to knock. A heavyset woman opened the door when she saw them walking up. Her stringy orange hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hadn’t been given much attention. She wore sweatpants and a too-small T-shirt with a three-line announcement that proclaimed her identity as Red Neck. Red Head. Red Hot.
“Yeah?” she said, looking them over.
“We’re looking for Manny Tucker.”
“I’m afraid you got the wrong place. I don’t know any Manny Tucker.”
“This is 424 Collins Avenue, right?”
“It is. But I still don’t know … what was the name again?”
“Manny Tucker. This is the address we have for him.”
The woman shrugged.
“Well, he may have lived here before. I moved in a few months ago and the house was empty.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, are you renting or buying?”
“Renting.”
“And the landlord?”
“Melvin Foster. Know him?”
“I’ve heard of him,” Bachelor said. “Know where he lives?”
She turned and pointed down the street.
“Sure, right down there. Four blocks east, on the corner. White house. Got one of those jockey statues in the front yard. Holding a lantern, I think.”
“Thanks,” Bachelor said. He and Carroll tipped their hats and got in the squad car.
“I don’t think the part about the lantern was necessary,” Carroll said. “Just the jockey would’ve been enough. Don’t see too many jockey statues around, holding a lantern or anything else.”
“True,” Bachelor said as he put the car into gear and rolled down the block. “At least she has an eye for detail.”
A minute later they were ringing the doorbell at Foster’s house. It was a ranch-style place with wooden shutters and a shake roof. And a statue of a black jockey holding a lantern in the front yard.