by Steve Goble
“I get your point.”
“You’ve got me. And you’ve got Tuck. And you’ve got to stop blaming yourself because bad things happen and you can’t always stop them.”
“OK.”
“OK?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then, drink up, me hearty, yo ho. I want to take you home and show you the beautiful side of life.”
“I could use a little of that.”
“Me, too.” She tamped out the remainder of her cigarette. “Let’s go embrace life and fuck hard, mister.”
“You have a dirty mouth for a schoolteacher.”
“Meh. You should hear my students.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Friday, 8:30 a.m.
I BARELY ACKNOWLEDGED Debbie’s hello on my way into the squad room the next morning. I did catch her look of concern.
Dooman caught me in the hall. “Your guitar man sells a lot of weed, on the record, and maybe harder stuff off. I have not found anyone who saw him with a blonde teenager that night. And forensics hasn’t found anything to put her on that bike, dead or alive. Any other angle you want me to work?”
“Ask Detective Beckworth, OK? It is really her case.”
“OK.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I hear you got a little rough yesterday.”
“I was provoked.”
“Not what I heard. And not what I saw online. Don’t get provoked again.”
“Got it.”
“Good.” He passed me and took a peek down Debbie’s blouse on his way out. I turned toward the squad room, but Sheriff Daltry waved at me from his office door. “Ed.”
I nodded and followed him in.
“You know I understand how it is out there,” he said, trying to fake sympathy. “It is dangerous work, cops take a lot of crap, I know all that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you need to blow off some steam now and then, well, hell, I did road patrol for quite a few years, back in the day. I know how it is. Hell, you had a drunk woman aim a gun at you. That’s some stress, right there.”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes narrowed. “But we do not blow off steam in a crowd. We do not blow off steam in front of witnesses. We do not blow off steam in front of a dozen people with cell phone cameras.”
“Sheriff, that guy—”
“That guy is a taxpayer, and a voter. And from what I read in Baxter’s report, he was just saying what a lot of other taxpayers and voters are saying, too.”
“Jesus, Sheriff, if this is just about getting you elected again—”
“This is about you keeping your goddamned job, Ed. If I lose you, I don’t know if the commissioners will let me replace you now, if ever. How we got two goddamned Democrats on the board I will never know.”
“One of the Republican candidates bought a lot of porn,” I said.
The sheriff glared at me. “Not proven.”
“Voters seemed convinced.”
“Fuck, Ed, just straighten up, OK? I have invested serious time in keeping Swammer—Jim Swammer, that’s the guy you roughed up—from filing a lawsuit. Not sure I convinced him; time will tell. I told him you’d just left a murder scene and were all worked up. That seemed to cool him off a bit. He ain’t a bad guy, Ed. Little girl like that gets killed, he can see how that would rattle you. So he might simmer down. He might not. But one thing is for damn sure—I have been ducking Farkas and reporter calls ever since you fucked up. I have told people that the videos they’re seeing ain’t telling the whole story, and if they saw all the footage it would show you were provoked. But I know there ain’t more video that shows that. I’m just blowing smoke up their asses.”
“I know.”
“If that smoke don’t calm them all down, I will not hesitate to kick you in the nuts and feed you to the wolves. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Jesus,” he said, wiping his brow on his sleeve. “Remember last year, we played softball with those kids? That was the kind of internet I like, Ed. Not this roughhouse shit.”
“Right.”
“You hit a home run in that game.”
“Yeah.”
“No more roughhouse shit, and you don’t say a goddamned word to the goddamned press. Now go catch bad guys.”
“OK.”
I got out of there as quickly as I could.
I was on my third cup of coffee, and my second text from Linda after ignoring a dozen voicemails from reporters, when my cell phone buzzed. It was Shelly. “We have some forensics action, Ed.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Helpful stuff, too, I think. One, not all her injuries were inflicted at the same time. Some are at least a day or two older.”
“Huh.” Had she been held captive and tortured?
“Two, she’d had sexual intercourse, and recently.”
“Rape?”
“Not conclusive, no vaginal tearing or anything like that, but she had been bound, so … maybe rape. Probably rape.”
“Jesus.” I could feel my blood burning.
“Three, and this could be a break for us, she had some yellow fiber caught between her teeth, and strained muscles around her mouth and jaws. They think it was from something used to gag her.”
“Fiber identified?”
“Not yet. This is pretty fresh, all preliminary. But they are working on that.”
“Let’s have them check that against forensics on Van Heusen’s motorcycle.”
“Yeah, they are on that. But,” she said, “the coroner’s prelim shows the time of death most likely Wednesday night. Van Heusen was in jail then. Did they find shit on his bike?”
“No, not really.” I sighed. “He still could be connected, though. I don’t know. Maybe he had help. Maybe he brought her down here and other guys took over, some shit like that.”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Just seems weird, a Columbus guitar picker and weed merchant up here in Jodyville at the same time a Columbus girl shows up here dead. Can’t help trying to connect those dots. Meanwhile, you know the last time I saw yellow fiber?”
“Around Buzz’s head.”
“Fuck yeah. I am going to go grab the skinny bastard.”
“We. We are going to go grab the skinny bastard. My case, remember? I am in the parking lot.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Friday, 9:30 a.m.
WE SHOVED OUR way through a crowded hallway, then pulled an assistant principal and a couple of teachers from a writhing mess of legs and arms to find Ally Phelps trying to claw the eyes out of Buzz Norris.
Once we’d disentangled them, I had Buzz by the arms and Shelly had the Phelps girl against a wall. Buzz was still snarling and Ally was still wailing, and none of it was comprehensible. I put a little pressure on Buzz’s elbow. “Be still, Buzz.”
Shelly whispered something into Ally’s ear, and the teen quieted down. There was nothing quiet about her eyes, though. They shot venom at Buzz.
“What is this about, Ally?” Shelly’s voice was calm, and she glanced my way to see if I was likewise calm. I tried to look all Buddhistic, despite the gangly teen boy straining to free himself from my grasp.
“He … killed … that … girl!” Barely audible sobs filled the void between words.
“Like hell!” Buzz tried to twist away. I pushed his elbows closer together behind his back, as though I were using pruning shears. He winced, muttered “Jesus!” and his knees nearly failed him.
“Don’t do that again,” I said. “You will get your say. For now, settle down.”
He did.
“You fucked her, and you killed her!”
“Ally,” Shelly said, “we’ll talk about this. Be quiet for now.”
“He—”
“Quiet.”
Ally settled down.
“We are going to take both of you to the S.O. and talk this out, OK?” Shelly made it sound like a negotiation. I thought we had enough to drag Bu
zz in right now, whether he wanted it or not, but it was Shelly’s case, and she was playing it cool.
“OK,” Ally said. “Drag it out of him.”
“Do I have a choice?” Buzz spoke through clenched teeth.
I leaned toward his ear. “What do you think the right choice is, Buzz?”
“I’ll go.”
“Good.”
He stood still. I let go of his arms and called for a couple of squad cars, one for him and one for her. I took Buzz into the principal’s office while Shelly kept Ally busy somewhere else. Principal Reed waved students back to classrooms. He looked as though someone had peed on his cat.
While we waited, I scanned Buzz’s pockets. No yellow scarf or bandana. “You want a jacket or something? It is chilly out. We can go to your locker.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
Fine, I thought. We’ll get a warrant. We’ll check your locker, and your trailer, and your car. We’ll find your yellow headband, and we’ll have the science guys do a little fiber analysis. And if we get a match, I just might break your fucking arms.
“Why does Ally think you killed Megan Beemer?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“We haven’t arrested you.”
“I want a lawyer.”
He stubbornly maintained that position until Deputy Trumpower came to give him a ride. I paused when I saw Shelly, Ally, and Deputy Erskin Holloway emerge from the auditorium. Holloway was staring at Ally’s ass. I flicked his ear and shook my head. I do not really like Deputy Holloway much.
Shelly handed me her keys. “I am going to ride with Ally. You drive my car, OK?”
“Sure.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Friday, 11:42 a.m.
BACK AT THE sheriff’s office, Shelly arranged for separate interrogation rooms while I filed search warrant requests. I listed all sorts of stuff on the warrant—drugs, weapons, girls’ clothing, makeup, any and all items that might be connected to that warehouse party—and I listed vehicles that might have hauled instruments and amps to the gig, a truck Gage’s brother owned, and cars that Buzz and Johnny drove. The warrant included checking the ATV tires for matches against the tracks and mud we found by Black Powder Creek. What we wanted most, though, was a yellow headband. Any yellow fabric, really. Anything connected to Buzz that we could give the lab team, to compare to the fibers caught in Megan Beemer’s teeth.
I envisioned the girl, straining, biting at the cloth that silenced her, then envisioned myself pounding the shit out of Buzz. I was still envisioning that when Shelly walked in. “They are set. Let’s do the girl first.” She paused and stared at me. “You are clenching your jaws again.”
“Am I?”
“Yes, Detective. You’ve got to relax; this anger is not healthy.”
“I’m just processing it, that’s all. I’m fine.” I punched Buzz one more time in my daydreams, and wiped the blood from his face on his black T-shirt. Then I tried being a professional. “Warrant request is filed; Dooman will handle that end of it.”
“Great. Let’s go.” She did not look enthusiastic, despite her words. I made a mental note to bury my rage. I did not want her going to the sheriff and getting me kicked off this case.
Ally Phelps was drinking a Diet Coke and tugging on her Super-girl T-shirt to better hide her boobs. Shelly plopped a recorder onto the table, turned it on, and stated the girl’s name, her name, my name, the location, the date and the time.
“Ally, you really think Buzz killed that girl, Megan Beemer?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They were there, at the party where she vanished, right? And now she’s here, and she’s dead, right down the road. And she’s just the type of pretty bitch who … I mean, sorry, she’s … she’s dead … I shouldn’t call her a bitch, right? But she is … was … she was so pretty. And Buzz likes the pretty ones. I’m not pretty enough, but she …”
“You told Buzz what you suspected.” Shelly talked quietly, without judgment.
“I told him I knew he killed her.”
“How did he respond?”
“He called me an ignorant, boring whore. Said I was making shit up because I was jealous.”
I could not help myself. I jumped in. “Ally, do you have any evidence, any reason, other than the fact that Buzz and this girl attended the same party and she was found here, any other reason at all, to suspect Buzz killed Megan Beemer?”
She glared at me.
“Anything?” I glared back. “Anything solid?”
Her eyes leaked, and she shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“OK.” I looked at Shelly. Shelly nodded. I got up and left. I called Bob Dooman for a progress report on the search warrants.
A few minutes later, Shelly met me by the coffeepot. “She is on her way home. Not with that Holloway pervert.”
“Good.”
Shelly poured a cup. “So, what do you think?”
“I think Miss Phelps left out a very pertinent, relevant, and damning detail, and I am wondering why.”
“You noticed that, too, huh?”
I got myself a cup of coffee. “Yeah. Pressed for evidence against Buzz, she seemed to completely forget about her report to us earlier.”
Shelly nodded. “So, you think she lied about seeing Megan.”
“I do.” We started walking down the hall. “Her story about seeing the girl seemed out of whack, anyway. Like she was describing the girl she thought Megan was, rather than a girl she’d actually seen.”
“Yeah, true.”
“I think it is possible that Ally saw the news about Megan’s disappearance on Facebook, connected some dots, and convinced herself that the boy who used to woo her had found himself a pretty blonde in Columbus.”
“Maybe,” Shelly said. “Maybe. Doesn’t rule Buzz out, though. Or his friends.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I answered, “and there’s that yellow fiber from Megan’s mouth.”
Shelly sighed. “Right. So everybody’s still in play as a suspect. Heard from Dooman?”
“Yeah, just a minute ago. They found a lot of scarves and bandanas and shit in Buzz’s car, and at his trailer, including four yellow ones. Those are headed to the lab now.”
Shelly sipped her java and looked at me after we sat at my desk. “Let’s hope we get a match. Did they find anything else? Pot? Drugs? Signed note confessing to the murder of Megan Beemer?”
“Nope. But they are still searching. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Damn.”
I shared her disappointment. A stash of weed or a gun or suspected stolen goods would have given us a solid reason to hold Buzz while the lab did its magic. But all we really had was some yellow cloth and the testimony of a not-so-trustworthy teen girl.
“Jesus,” I said, almost knocking over my coffee cup as I placed it on my desk.
“What?”
“Shelly … add another suspect to our list. Ally Phelps.”
She shook her head and grinned. “No, Ed. No.”
“Think about it, just a second, OK? Remember your Shakespeare, a woman scorned and all that.”
“Ed, I looked her up after we talked to her before. She doesn’t even drive. We can’t place her at the party scene.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I looked her up, too. But she doesn’t have to drive, does she? Maybe she has girlfriends who drive, or a new guy or something.”
She considered this while sipping coffee, and I could almost hear the gears in her head. “I remain skeptical. Lay it out for me.”
I waved a finger like a conductor as I thought out loud. “Let’s say Buzz went to the gig in Columbus, met the girl, and brought her back home.”
“OK.”
“Then Ally gets wind of this. Maybe someone tells her, maybe she goes to see Buzz and catches him with Megan, or whatever.”
“Well,” Shelly said, “I�
��ve seen shit like that, but Ally is a munchkin. I don’t see her beating the hell out of Megan who was bigger, older, and more athletic.”
“Ally and some girlfriends, maybe,” I said.
“Ally seems a bit reclusive by nature, if I’m any judge,” Shelly said, “but we haven’t looked into her friends or anything.”
“Or boyfriends,” I added. “Maybe she got some guy to do her bidding.”
“I think this all sounds melodramatic,” she said. Then she sighed. “It’s an avenue we can pursue, though.”
“Agreed.”
My phone buzzed. It was Dooman. I listened for a minute then said, “Thanks.” I paused dramatically and stared at Shelly. “We have a match on tire prints. Two four-wheelers behind Buzz’s trailer match tracks we found below the bridge.”
“That is something solid to go on.” Shelly put her mug down. “Next interview.”
“Hell, yeah. Let’s go talk to the genius behind the hit song ‘Turd Blossom,’ shall we?”
“Let me do the talking.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I am not going to beat the shit out of the little fuck until I am sure we have the right little fuck.”
She glared at me.
“I kid. I’m a kidder. A little levity.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, 12:30 p.m.
DETECTIVE BECKWORTH STARED across the table at Buzz, after going through the whole recording machine mantra. Buzz stared at the ceiling, then at the table surface, then at the coffee stain on the wall. Some people claimed it looked like Alfred Hitchcock. I thought it resembled Gozer the Gozerian, but other cops usually looked at me funny whenever I said that. Buzz did not express an opinion.
“Did you kill Megan Beemer?” Shelly’s eyes locked onto Buzz’s, like she could see between the atoms of his brain to find the truth.
“No.” Buzz did not divert his gaze. It was a staring contest between him and Shelly. I watched for quivering lips and shaking hands, but saw neither. Of course, the Professor had been icy cool when we dragged him in for killing Briana Marston back in New York. You can’t always tell a killer by sight, even when you are putting the squeeze on him.