City Problems

by Steve Goble

  “Why did Ally think you killed the Columbus girl?” Shelly kept her voice even, pitched low.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Louder, for the recorder, Buzz.”

  “I don’t know! Jesus, am I under arrest, lady?”

  “No.”

  “Because it feels like I am under arrest. You guys think Ally is right! I want a lawyer.”

  “You are not under arrest,” Shelly said. “Yet, anyway. But Ally Phelps made a very serious accusation, and we need to check it out.”

  “That bitch, that little turncoat bitch!”

  “Why do you say turncoat?”

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “You are not under arrest, Buzz, and you said you wanted a chance to talk.”

  “I said I wanted a lawyer, you made all nice and everything and I said I’d talk, and now I am not so sure I should have agreed to that, so I want a lawyer, a fucking lawyer, and I am shutting up until I get one!”

  “How often do you ride your four-wheeler down by the creek?”

  He looked as though a light bulb should be floating above his head. “Oh. Oh, Jesus. Fuck. You think, you must think, holy shit.”

  I’d rattled him, and I wanted to keep it up. “Think what, Buzz?”

  “We ride down there all the time! So do other people! Just because you found tracks …”

  “Who said we found tracks?”

  He snarled. “If you didn’t find tracks you are too fucking dumb to be a cop. She was found downstream, right? You think she went in there at the bridge. Everyone knows you searched at the bridge. Of course, you found fucking tracks. Jesus! I want a lawyer.”

  Shelly nodded at me, and we got up and left the interrogation room.

  “You pressed him harder than you should have. Once he started talking about a lawyer …”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “What do you think?” she asked. “Hold him or not?”

  “I would love to know about the yellow fibers before we make that call, but lab work is slow.” I scratched my head. “And he actually is right about the tire tracks. Kids are down there all the time. We don’t have a conclusive age on the tracks we found, Bob said. Could have been there before she went in.”

  “OK.” Shelly shrugged.

  “Tell you what, let’s release him. You drive him home. Take your time. I’ll set up a tail on him, see what he does when he thinks we aren’t looking.”

  “Not a bad idea,” she said. “You set that up, and I will give our boy the ‘don’t leave town’ speech.”

  We parted company. My phone buzzed about thirty seconds later.

  It was Buzz’s mom. She was livid. “You arrested my son?”

  “No, ma’am. We talked to him.”

  “You dragged him out of school! And you have cops going through the trailer, and his car, and … Jesus. Is it drugs? Is he on drugs?”

  “No, ma’am. There was an altercation, between Buzz and a girl. We talked to both of them and right now we’re arranging a ride home for Buzz. Unless you want to come pick him up? I would like to ask you some questions anyway.”

  “Take him home. I have to work.” She hung up.

  I stopped in the men’s room, my mind chugging on the operation Shelly and I were planning. Deputy Baxter was in there, regaling a couple of other deputies with a tale that had him animated. “… and it was just fucking parked on the far side of the hill, not two miles away from Green’s fence. Couldn’t see it from the road, and it was in among the trees and shit. Miller had his own gear surrounding it, too, had it hid pretty good, but it was right there, and he confessed to the whole thing—he had been wheeling and dealing, trying to sell it in pieces.”

  “Pieces?” One of the fellows gasped. “Be a shame to tear that tractor up.”

  “But stupid to sell it whole,” Bax said. “Get caught for sure. In pieces, though, it might work like a spanked dog. Lots of guys out there restoring antique tractors, looking for parts.”

  “Good job, Bax,” said one of the guys, slapping him on the shoulder. “Right smart of you.”

  “Thanks!” Baxter looked up and noticed me. “Ed! Make me a detective, bud! I found that tractor!”

  “I don’t give—”

  “I just asked myself how would I steal it if I wanted to steal it and bam! I had the whole turkey dinner right there. I figured it could not have gone far, right? Antique tractor like that, people would notice—most folks around here have seen it in the parades and at the fair and such. Very easy to recognize. So you couldn’t drive it away, not far. You’d need a big flatbed, you’d need to cover it up, just too complicated, right? And the window of opportunity to steal it was pretty small—thing vanished after Mr. Green went to town that morning, was gone when he came back. Had to be a quick job, in broad daylight.”

  I stepped to the urinal. “Bax, I don’t—”

  Bax was too excited to notice my mood, so excited he started repeating himself. “You’d need to have your flatbed all ready to go at exactly the right time, and that’s just too much clockwork right there. That was the key, Ed. Lots of folks around here know that tractor, a ’59 Allis-Chalmers—I mean, it’s highly recognizable among the farmers, and pretty well known to most around here. That thing travels any distance on the road around here, someone is likely to notice. And getting it up on a flatbed? That’s a fairly big operation there. Seemed weird the thief would have all the gear and tarps he needed at just the right time when opportunity struck, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t think. I finished, zipped, flushed, and went to wash my hands. I was trying to get back on track with my own case, so I missed a few words from Baxter’s excited retelling. The other guys stood around, apparently eager to hear it all again. Bax was talking fast.

  “So I thought, maybe someone just drove it out of there, but not too far,” Bax said. “Green’s place is way out there anyway, not many witnesses if you stayed close, so I went and looked at the barn where he kept it. Then I climbed his hill, Gobbler’s Knob there, and looked around and I thought where would I drive that tractor from here if I was going to hide it close? And not in my own barn, right? Because that would just suck if I got caught with a stolen antique tractor in my own barn. People looking for a stolen tractor would search a barn, wouldn’t they? And I saw Miller Hill, not two miles from there by road and shorter if you go over land, and there’s a grove of trees down there on the other side of that hill, and I thought how easy it would be to just notice Mr. Green heading to town and just come right over and get that tractor and take it home …”

  The audience approved. “Good thinking, Bax. Sheriff happy?”

  “Hell yes, he’s happy,” Bax said. “Mr. Green, too, and me, too! How about you, Ed? You happy?”

  I shut the water off and spun on him. “Jesus Christ, Bax! I do not give two shits about Mr. Green’s fucking tractor or about your big case. Fuck!”

  I left. The room was silent behind me.

  Four steps down the hall, I heard a voice behind me. “That was uncalled for, Runyon.”

  I couldn’t tell which deputy had spoken, and I didn’t turn around to look.

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll try to care later.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Friday, 1:35 p.m.

  “SO, ED, YOU gonna tell me what this is all about?”

  Charlie Watkins and I were wearing Mifflin County road crew overalls striped with reflective yellow tape. We had hard hats and shovels, and stood shielded behind a county road crew truck parked across from the trailer park. We were digging a hole that did not really need to be dug, but we had a vantage from which I could watch anyone leaving or entering Buzz’s trailer, by the front or the back.

  “Can’t say much, Charlie. Just doing a stakeout, and my truck would be recognized. No good reason for a guy in a truck to just sit here, anyway. So I called you. I really appreciate the help.”

  “I appreciate the fifty bucks.”

  We dug our unnecessary hole and dra
nk diet pop. After a while, Shelly’s Mazda approached from the direction of town. I watched from beneath the visor on my helmet. Buzz paid no more attention to a couple of guys doing manual labor than any other teenager would have.

  I watched Buzz get out of Shelly’s car and walk briskly into the trailer. I heard the metal screen door slam, and the trailer shook a bit.

  “Boy seems pissed,” Charlie said as Shelly turned her car around.

  “Yeah.”

  “He kill that girl from Columbus?”

  “Can’t really say, Charlie.” I was beginning to think I should have come alone. Charlie had been reluctant to lend me the truck, though, because “I am responsible for it, Ed, and what if you get in a goddamned chase or something?” After a bit of haggling, in which Charlie somehow ended up helping with a “real police stakeout,” we’d come up with this plan. He and I would set up shop, and his wife would come get him after a while and he’d leave me with the truck. I decided if I ever chose to go this route again, I would just commandeer the fucking truck.

  We pretended to dig as a couple of hours passed. No one came or went, and it seemed Buzz had the trailer to himself. His mom was a waitress at a bar in a town called Fiddles, and Trumpower had popped in out of uniform for a beer, at my request. He had called and confirmed mom was there and was scheduled to work all night, and that I was missing out on hot wings and good beer.

  “I don’t think he’s going anywhere, Charlie,” I said.

  Charlie looked vaguely disappointed. “OK. Wife’s driving up, anyway.”

  “I will drop the truck and overalls off at the garage tonight, or tomorrow morning.”

  “OK.”

  I hefted a pair of binoculars out of the truck. “I appreciate it, Charlie.”

  “OK, Ed. Have a good night.”

  “Yep. Thanks again.”

  I headed toward the trees nearby, and Charlie headed home.

  Hours passed. I peed twice. In the distance, I could hear the barely audible loudspeaker and the occasional cheers from Big Green’s football game. I wondered if hard-hitting Jeff Cotton had put any opponents in the hospital. That stirred a memory of Megan Beemer’s injuries, and that made me wonder if I was trailing the wrong guy.

  Or the wrong girl. Where was Ally Phelps tonight?

  Eventually, porch lights ignited throughout the trailer park, and I kept my binoculars pointed at Buzz’s trailer. I really wanted to know what he was doing in that trailer. I’d half expected him to bolt, but that hadn’t happened. Was he in there destroying evidence, something we’d missed in our search? Was he talking to friends to get stories straight?

  What the hell, I decided. Go have a look.

  I doffed the overalls, despite the chill. I did not need those reflectors flashing in porch lights or headlights. I kept low and headed slowly toward the trailer. I dashed across the road, then crept toward a window.

  I listened, rather than peeking in. I could hear a TV or a stereo or something. After five minutes of this, I risked a quick glance.

  Buzz was watching porn and doing what teenage boys do when they watch porn.

  I snuck away, regretting my choice of careers, and headed back to grab the overalls.

  I watched a long time. Buzz never came out.

  I got in the truck and called Shelly.

  “Anything?” She sounded hopeful.

  “No, just him watching an orgy on the DVR and jerking off.”

  “Well,” she said. “That’s no help. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  I hung up and started to dial the S.O. but called Linda instead.

  “How are you tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “How are you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Saturday, 8:49 a.m.

  “SO, HAVE I lost my charms?”

  “No.” I squinted in the morning sunlight and kissed her. The kiss felt forced.

  “Because you seemed pretty preoccupied. And tense. And you still do.”

  “I’m sorry.” Linda was right. I’d called her to see if she could tell me who Ally Phelps hung out with, but Linda had other plans. She had been loving and attentive, and I’d been … somewhere else. Going through the motions, as they say. “It’s this case. I thought we were onto something. Possibly. Didn’t pan out. Then I had another idea, and now that seems stupid, too. Has me sort of fucked up.”

  She nodded, and locked her eyes on mine, like she was drilling into my mind. “Anything I can do to help?”

  “You helped plenty last night.” I kissed her again, then rolled out of bed and stepped to the counter to make coffee. I wished I had a bigger place, so the kitchen would be farther from the bed, but the distance was not great and Linda could keep right on talking.

  “I mean talk, or listen,” she said.

  “I know. Really. I am fine.”

  “You could try counseling again, you know.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I am not trying to piss you off.”

  “I know. I do. But I am fine. I am going to make coffee. And I am going to go to work and do justice and all that stuff and catch the bad guy and everything will be right in the world again. Does Ally Phelps have a boyfriend? Or girlfriends who might help her out?”

  Linda’s eyes widened. “Ally? She keeps to herself most of the time. I think she prefers Skype or Discord to actual human presence. I know she accused Buzz, and she’s wrong about that, by the way, but—”

  “I’m not sure she’s wrong about that.”

  “But,” Linda said again, her emphasis showing her annoyance at me for interrupting, “I don’t think she has a new guy, or any real close friends. Please tell me you do not think she is involved in this.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe involved, maybe not. Cops just have to ask a lot of questions.”

  Linda glanced at the clock. “Shit, no time for coffee. I am supposed to help set up an art fair today.” She started hurrying into her clothes. “I will run home, change clothes, and grab a cup at McDonald’s.”

  “My coffee’s better.”

  “Everyone’s coffee is better, but theirs is done.” She dropped her bra on the bed and winked. “I’ll come back for this later.” The flirtation seemed a bit forced. No doubt it was.

  “Please do,” I said, glad to be done with the counseling talk.

  I stood, steaming coffee in hand, and watched her drive up the lane. It was chilly, but not too much so, and mist still clung to the pond. I retrieved my battered Martin guitar from the trailer and headed down to the stump. I sat, placed my cup in the nice little hollow in the ground that always kept it from tipping over, and slowly strummed a G chord. A red-tailed hawk, feathers puffed up, listened from a naked branch across the water.

  A few random key changes later, and I was playing “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” Then I saw a pair of dead, blue eyes staring up from the mud and muck of my mind and threw the guitar aside. It tumbled with a discordant noise, sort of like “Turd Blossom.”

  “Goddamn it,” I growled, with no one to hear me but the hawk. He seemed unimpressed.

  All I’d wanted was a few minutes of peace, with no one trying to drag my feelings out of me or order me to shove them deeper inside. Just a little cool air, pond mist, a hawk’s occasional cry, and my guitar. Too much to ask, I guessed.

  I reached for the coffee, and realized I’d kicked it over. I got up, picked up the guitar, and found I had snapped off a tuning peg. I squared up like Babe Ruth and swung the damned thing at a sycamore. Broken strings lashed my face, shards flew, and my own wretched scream tore through the fog. The hawk took flight, swooped low, and vanished behind the trees.

  I knelt. I tried to remember the coping techniques I’d learned. Focus on breathing, just breathing. I was breathing pretty goddamned hard. I tried to notice my thoughts and just let them go. The first thought was wondering if I could have done something to find Megan Beemer faster. The next thought was that this was all my fault, that I should have not let myself be distract
ed by SWAT calls and drunk hookers with guns. I knew none of those things had been avoidable, but I blamed myself anyway.

  Depression is a lying bitch.

  And the third thought? My hands, tight on the killer’s neck, my nails digging into flesh until blood welled up, the faceless head bobbing left and right, back and forth, slowly spinning, popping into the air.

  Eventually, my breathing settled. I wiped away snot and tears, stepped over the guitar shards, and headed back to the trailer.

  I could not save Megan Beemer. But I could find whoever had killed her. And if things got ugly after that?

  Fuck it. I’m only human.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Saturday, 10:36 a.m.

  THE PHONE VIBRATED. I swallowed the rest of my sausage sandwich and answered. “Runyon.”

  “It’s Shelly. Where are you?”

  “Pumping gas into my truck and eating bad food. Where are you?”

  “You aren’t supposed to use your phone while you pump gas.”

  “I will issue a warrant for my arrest. Where are you?”

  “At the S.O. You didn’t answer earlier.”

  I glanced at my phone. It was 10:37 a.m. I had missed a couple of calls and messages while trying to get my act together. “Sorry. What’s going on?”

  “I have news about the yellow fibers.”

  I replaced the gas hose. “Really? On a Saturday?”

  “Yeah. Lab guys put a rush on things for me. We got some info.”

  “Matches something from Buzz?”

  “No.”

  “Van Heusen’s motorcycle?”

  “No. But it matches something in an FBI database. The fiber comes from a flag, manufactured by Banner Flag Emporium Store.”

  “That’s the most redundant goddamned thing I have heard in a month.”

  “Yeah, well. That’s what they call it. Based in Illinois, some town I can’t fucking pronounce.”

  I replaced my gas cap. “Shit, Shelly. You know where we saw a lot of yellow goddamned flags.”

  “Yep. With coiled snakes on them. And we saw a lot of steel plate on a barn. And guns. And a big fucking dog. Anyway, my partner is on the phone with the flag company right now, trying to see if we can confirm a purchase by your redneck cop haters.”