by Mark Reps
“No. Not to me anyway. I supposed it was for a retreat center for priests. Catholics are well known for doing that sort of thing. The land was in a trust, a corporate entity, I think. I don’t know all the details. I don’t really understand that end of the business.”
“Darla, I think that’s about enough for now. We’re going to have to do some routine police investigative work here over the next few days. I think it will be best if no one disturbs anything here at the office.”
“Well, of course,” said Darla.
“So until we’re done, no one should be allowed into the office,” said Sherriff Hanks. “By late tomorrow I’m sure you will be able to go back in and put things in order. I don’t know when Mrs. Farrell will want to come down and go through her husband’s things. I’ll find out when I talk to her.”
At the mention of Mrs. Farrell’s name, Darla once again let loose with a shower of tears.
“Is there anything you need to get out of the office before we lock it up?”
“Nothing really, just my purse and my sweater. I think that’s about it.”
Kate walked Darla into the office. The eerie aura accompanying death hung in the air. Darla quickly grabbed her sweater and headed for the inner office. At the doorway entrance she stopped dead in her tracks.
“My purse is in Mr. Farrell’s office. I was carrying it in my hand when I found him. I remember dropping it near his desk.”
Darla shivered as she peered into the room where only hours earlier she had found her boss hanging by his neck.
“There it is.”
“Let me get it for you.”
Kate grabbed the purse. She handed it to Darla who was staring at her employers’ desk. The leather office chair remained where it had been shoved. Overhead, the rope dangled loosely, a grim reminder of the horrible event. Darla stepped to the desk and began straightening out the final papers her boss had been working on.
“Darla, please leave things as they are for now. We want to look things over. You’ll have time to straighten up when the investigation is over.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Farrell likes things neat. I mop and dust the office floor every night. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. That’s what Mr. Farrell says.”
Darla put the papers down. As she started to walk away, she stopped and looked back at the desk.
“Now, that’s odd.”
“What’s odd, Darla?” asked Kate.
“Mr. Farrell’s espresso cup. It’s missing. He always left it sitting right there on his desk. Look, you can see where it stained the desk. I could never get him to use a coaster. To be honest I gave up long ago on trying to get rid of the ring the cup left behind. The only place that cup ever went was to his mouth. I filled it when it was empty and cleaned it at the end of every day. I wonder where it went?”
“We’ll have a look around for it. I’m sure it’s here somewhere,” assured Deputy Steele
“It’s so strange. He was never at his desk without his espresso cup. Now he’s gone and so is his favorite cup.”
Chapter Eighteen
Sheriff Hanks stood in the darkened corner of Farrell’s office, studying the room as Deputy Steele walked Darla to her car. The west facing windows allowed in only a marginal amount of direct sunlight, but more than enough to fade the oak flooring around his desk. At this time of day long shadows crept steadily across the room.
The top of Farrell’s large desk was sparsely ornamented. An ashtray, two neat piles of legalistic looking real estate papers and a desktop pen holder with two pens, hardly seemed the desk of a supposedly busy man. Opposite the desk a pair of chairs angled inward in a slightly asymmetric fashion. The chair nearest the door was much closer to the desk. The sheriff took a seat in it as Deputy Steele returned.
“Didn’t Darla say that Farrell didn’t have any clients this morning?”
“None by the time she left the office around noon,” answered Deputy Steele.
“Does that chair seem out of place to you?” asked Zeb.
One chair completely askew with the other did seem incongruous with the otherwise fastidiously kept office. The deputy nodded.
“I’ll ask Darla about it.”
Deputy Steele walked around and stood behind the desk. Her eyes landed on the daily calendar. It was full of handwritten notes. The square for the current day was unreadable due to coffee stains.
“Deputy Steele.”
Jake’s husky voice took her by surprise.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. Did you find something?”
“He keeps a busy business calendar, but nothing he’s written down hints at anything suicidal,” said the deputy.
“How about murder?” asked Sheriff Hanks.
Jake and Deputy Steele turned to the sheriff who was on all fours, pointing to several small piles of wood shavings. They crouched down and joined him.
“Wood shavings,” said Zeb. “Look at it from this angle.”
Zeb shined a small ultraviolet flashlight onto the floor.
“Tell me what you see.”
Interspersed among the wood shavings were fine rope fibers. Kate and Jake looked simultaneously toward the ceiling.
“What do you think?” asked Zeb.
“I’m thinking if a man hangs himself with a rope tied around a wooden beam, when he swings back and forth there’s going to be a certain amount of rope fibers and wood shavings left behind as debris,” said Jake.
“As much as this?” asked Deputy Steele.
“It does seem like quite a lot, especially considering how smooth the finish on that beam is.”
Kate gave the beam another glance. It was smooth, finished with lacquer.
“If the shavings came from the beam, wouldn’t most of them have ended up on Farrell, in his hair or on his clothes?” asked Kate.
Without responding, Zeb walked from Farrell’s office to the secretary’s desk, picked up the phone and dialed.
“This is Sheriff Hanks. I need to talk to Doc Yackley right now.”
Zeb drummed his fingers on the desk as he waited.
“Doc, I need you to check something on Farrell’s body.”
“I’m looking at his cadaver as we speak. What do you need?”
“Doc, did you notice any wood shavings or rope fibers on the body?”
“A goodly amount of both as a matter of fact. I suppose with the type of rope he used a lot of fibers rubbed off. The wood shavings seem a little excessive but, say isn’t that beam real smooth wood? Kind of a shiny finish?”
“You bet it is. Good memory, Doc.”
“It would take quite a bit of movement to shave off that much wood. He must have been swingin’ back and forth like a pendulum,” said Doc.
“Would you mind collecting those shavings for me?”
“It’s as good as done.”
“Thanks.”
“Say, there’s one more thing I noticed right off that I think you ought to know about,” said Doc.
“What’s that?” asked the sheriff.
“When I took off Farrell’s shoes to examine his feet, I noticed his socks were pulled down around his ankles. It seemed odd, so I had a closer look.”
Zeb listened as Doc inhaled on his pipe.
“And?”
“He had deep fingernail marks dug into his ankles.”
“Does that mean anything to you?”
“Not yet. Thanks.”
Zeb hung up the phone and walked back into the dead man’s office. As he passed through the door he visualized the image Doc had put in his head, Farrell swinging like a pendulum. Zeb had read somewhere the human head weighs as much as a woman’s bowling ball. The head would have flopped to the side atop a broken neck. Zeb’s eyes moved back and forth as if he were watching Farrell’s swinging body. Why would his socks be pulled down around his ankles? What did the fingernail gouges in his skin mean?
“Doc have anything to say?”
Deputy Kate Steele’s voice quickly brought Zeb from h
is musing.
“He said there were plenty of wood shavings and rope fibers on Farrell’s clothes. There was a fair amount of both in his hair too. He’s keeping them for us.”
Zeb glanced up at the beam and down on the floor.
“I guess now we have to decide how much is too much,” he said. “Doc also found one other thing he’s having a little trouble reckoning. Farrell’s socks were pulled down below his ankles, and he had deep fingernail marks dug into his ankles.”
“What do you make of that?” asked Kate.
“Nothing yet. I know from my days as a drunken bum that chigger bites around the ankles can cause a man to dig in pretty deep when he scratches himself. But, on the other hand, it might be something. Come down here,” said Jake. “Feel this.”
Kate and Zeb joined him on the floor. The fingertips on Jake’s callused and gnarly hand danced ever so lightly across the floor. Kate placed her soft, smoother hand next to his, tracing the path with her fingertips.
“Rubber sole,” said Jake, rubbing his thumb against his fingertips.
“Residue from a rubber sole.”
Kate slowly rubbed over the area with her fingertips. Two distinct tracks, less than an inch wide each, about eighteen inches apart, ran from beneath Farrell’s desk and ended directly under the dangling rope.
“Somebody sitting at that desk dragged their heels backwards from beneath the desk to right here,” said Jake. “And it happened today.”
“How can you say that?” asked Deputy Kate. “How can you be so specific about when they were made?”
“If they were made yesterday, or the day before, or even early this morning, they would be smudged over by the movements of Farrell’s feet. If they hadn’t been made today, Miss Thompson would have erased them with her mop last night.”
“Jake, it sounds like you have a theory that goes beyond suicide,” said Zeb.
“Let me sleep on it,” said Jake. “We’ll talk in the morning after we’ve got Doc’s findings.”
Chapter Nineteen
Helen put Doc Yackley’s call directly through to the sheriff.
“Good morning, Doc,” said Zeb. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so early this morning.”
“It’s not about John Farrell’s autopsy,” said Doc. “No, as a matter of fact, it’s totally unrelated.”
“What is it then?” asked the sheriff.
“Early this morning I was checking in on Delbert. I thought letting him know about the Farrell case might perk him up a little. I know that sounds strange, but people react, well, even improve, when you talk with them about something they feel passionately about. I think it stimulates the brain in ways we can’t measure. You know Delbert, on the mend or not, likes to know what’s going on around town.”
“Yes,” replied Zeb.
“Well, it’s funny what will get somebody going. Maybe it was just coincidence, but once I started telling him about what happened he started trying to talk,” said Doc. “At first I thought maybe the subject overexcited him. So I checked his vital signs and they were good enough. Right now he looks twice as alive as he has since he took ill. I thought you’d like to know. My gut tells me he knows something he can’t quite communicate to us. It may be about the Farrell case.”
“Thanks for letting me know, Doc. I’ll stop by ASAP.”
“That sounds like the right thing to do,” said Doc. “Goodbye.”
Zeb returned the phone back to its cradle. Minutes later, walking into the hospital room, he was amazed to see Delbert sitting up in bed. Color had returned to his cheeks and he was smiling.
“Delbert, you look like a million bucks,” said the sheriff.
“Pgghrarh. Garrksh.”
“I can’t make out what you’re saying, Delbert,” said Zeb.
“Pgghrarhss.”
Zeb could see that trying to speak was exhausting his deputy.
“Delbert, I know you’re trying to speak. I’m trying my best to make it out, but I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Zeb reached for a pen and paper on Delbert’s table but almost instantly Delbert’s eyes fluttered a few times and drifted. In an instant he was out cold. Zeb listened to the big deputy’s gentle snoring for a few minutes. Doc shrugged his shoulders.
“It happens. He’s been through a lot.”
Zeb nodded. “Doc, would you get hold of me if Delbert tries to communicate something?”
“You got it,” said Doc Yackley.
Zeb headed out the hospital door for a cup of coffee at the Town Talk.
At the cafe he joined Deputy Kate Steele at the counter. He walked behind the counter and grabbed the pot and poured himself a cup.
“I just stopped by to see Delbert,” he said. “He tried to talk.”
“He must be improving,” said Kate.
“What’s with the long face, cowboy?” asked Doreen, bursting through the kitchen doors. “That cup of mud you’re wettin’ yer whistle with taste sour?”
“I was just explaining to Kate that I stopped by to see Delbert.”
“How’s the ol’ boy doin’?”
“Doc says better. He had color in his cheeks. He tried to talk, but he couldn’t get a word out of his mouth without getting exhausted,” said Zeb.
“I was thinkin’ about Delbert a touch ago,” said Doreen.
“What were you thinking, Doreen?” asked Kate.
“When I was chattin’ with Father McNamara one time, he told me a story about a sick boy. Seems as though the kid had been sicker than a dang dog for near on a year. His family went to every kind of special doctor there was. Still that boy got sicker and sicker. Pretty soon everyone, except his folks, gave up on his chances of ever gettin’ better. Then one day a nurse asked his parents what made them so strong so as not to give up hope. The daddy said maybe they just hadn’t found the right doctor yet. And the momma, she said that even though no one else, not even the boy’s father, could see it, her boy was indeed on the mend. The mother knew her son got a little tiny bit better each time he had a visit from someone who cared. The mother said it was like counting up numbers, one at a time. Each prayer for the boy, each visit, every kind thought served to make him a little bit better. When enough of those good deeds come together, her son would be good as new.”
“That’s a wonderful story, Doreen,” said Kate.
“Well, it got me thinkin’,” said Doreen. “That maybe we got the same situation with Delbert.”
“Believe me,” said Zeb. “I know they are praying for him every day over at the church. Helen Nazelrod is seeing to that.”
“That’s all well and good. Ol’ Delbert ain’t gonna be none the worse from the power of prayer. But it was what the father said about the boy in the story Father McNamara told me that got me to thinkin’.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kate.
“That maybe he just ain’t had the right doctor yet. That maybe he ought to have a healin’ done by a Medicine Man, by Jimmy Song Bird.”
Zeb’s and Kate’s eyes lit up like someone turned on a light bulb in their heads.
“Kate, girl, think you could arrange that?”
“Let me see what I can do,” said Kate. “I’m headed out Song Bird’s way this morning on official business. I’ll run over and ask him. All right with you, sheriff?”
“Anything that will help Delbert is fine by me. I think it’s a great idea.”
“I’ll be back by noon, or shortly after,” said Deputy Steele.
“You don’t suppose she’s going to stop and see Eskadi while she’s at it, do you, Doe?”
“A girl’s gonna do what a girl’s gonna do, sugar lamb. If she can bring back a healin’ from Song Bird, everyone will the better off for it. Agreed?”
Zeb was a bit wary but held hope in his heart that Song Bird would have something up his sleeve.
Chapter Twenty
The trip to the San Carlos reservation went quickly. Just as she crossed onto reservation land her cell
phone rang. It was Eskadi asking when she would be arriving and telling her where to find him.
Kate pulled into the parking lot of the tribal center. Eskadi was talking to Song Bird under the shade of the old mesquite tree in front of the tribal offices. Her heart quickened as she approached Eskadi. She kissed him on the cheek in front of the medicine man. Song Bird tipped his head back slightly and gazed skyward sniffing the air.
“Sandalwood, I smell sandalwood floating in the air.” Song Bird let out a peal of joyous laughter.
“I need your help,” said Kate.
“What can I do for someone who has so much love in her heart?” asked the Medicine Man. “And such a serious look on her face.”
“It’s for Delbert. He’s back from in the hospital in Tucson. He’s better, but he is still sick. I know you can help him.”
Song Bird listened intently as Kate brought him up to date on Delbert’s condition. As she finished, the sound of a single red tailed hawk filtered through the air. A second bird and a third rapidly joined in a chorus. Their music gave Kate a sudden chill as Song Bird’s countenance turned serious. Kate glanced quickly from Song Bird to Eskadi whose eyes were reading the Medicine Man’s reaction. The birds’ song ceased as quickly as it had begun.
“I have to prepare for the healing,” announced Song Bird. “I will be at the hospital in Safford tomorrow.”
With that, he got in his truck and pulled away. The midday sun reflected off Song Bird’s truck, making it look like a ball of flame moving down the road.
“Don’t you think it's fortuitous that Song Bird was here when I arrived?”
“He was actually the reason I called you. Didn’t you get my message?” asked Eskadi.
“Only that you called. I was hoping it was because you wanted to see me.”
“I do, but I would be lying if I told you that was the only reason I called. My phone call was actually about the land being sold on Mount Graham.”
“What did you find out?”
“It’s not what I found out but what Song Bird found out from Geronimo Star in the Night, the Medicine Man who lives on Mount Graham. He and Song Bird are great men. Unfortunately, they are a dying breed.”