Shattered Image

by J. F. Margos

  “Yeah, she says that Dody lives in Manor now. They don’t keep in touch. She raised Addie’s two children for the last fourteen years—two girls—twenty-two and twenty-four now.”

  “So, what was the story with the dad? Why did Grandma get the kids?”

  “Dad drinks, ever since Mom skipped,” Tommy said.

  “Skipped?”

  “Mrs. Russell said we would hear all the rumors anyway, so she would just tell us. She says the townspeople thought that her daughter was having an affair, and that she ran off with the man. She disappeared sixteen years ago, and so did he.”

  “So, Mom—ask who he was.”

  “This Jimmy Hughes who identified her?”

  “Anhh, you lose twenty-five thousand dollars and the trip to Bermuda,” Mike said.

  “Okay, smarty, who was it?”

  “Jimmy’s brother, Doug,” Tommy said, nodding.

  “Interesting.”

  We all ate in silence awhile. I watched while the food evaporated from the table.

  “So, what did this Jimmy say about his brother’s disappearance?”

  “We didn’t know all that when we interviewed him this morning, so we haven’t had a chance to ask him.”

  “Yeah, Mario, you’re getting ahead of us again. We just talked to Mrs. Russell on the phone a little while ago. There hasn’t been time for us to go up to Viola and see her in person, or to find and talk to Dody Waldrep, the victim’s husband, much less go back and question Jimmy again.”

  “But Jimmy must have said something this morning about his brother’s disappearance—right?”

  The two men looked at each other and then at me, and shook their heads in unison.

  “Weird, huh, Toni?”

  “To say the least. So, he just came in and identified the woman and told you who she was and a little bit about how he knew her, and that was it?”

  “Yep,” Mike said as he dabbed up the last bit of food from his plate with a piece of bread.

  “We couldn’t get anything else out of him. He was quiet and kind of edgylike, but he was almost belligerent in his answers a few times.”

  “I agree with that,” Mike said. “He wasn’t trying to cooperate, really. I mean, he identified her by calling in, and then coming in to talk, but he wasn’t forthcoming after he got there.”

  “No sign of grief?”

  “That’s hard to say, Toni. It was hard to tell what was going on with this guy. He was kind of withdrawn sometimes, and then like I said, he’d be belligerent. He was a tough read—strange, and a really tough read.”

  “I’d like to go talk to him, if you don’t mind. You know, when people find out that I’m the one who sculpted their friend’s or family member’s face, they sometimes open up.”

  Mike sighed. My son had issues with me “interfering” in his cases, but I had issues with leaving my sculptures alone—both before and after they reacquired their identities. I had already become involved with Addie Russell Waldrep before I knew that’s who she was. I had held her skull. I knew every square millimeter of her face. She and I had made a connection across the expanse of time—we had a kind of spiritual friendship. I wanted to help find who killed her. I had to find who killed her.

  “I don’t mind,” Tommy said, “for the usual deal.”

  “I tell you everything I find out.”

  “Yep—and we’re still going to see him again later anyway, whether you go or not. It’s our job, you know.”

  “I understand, Tommy. You know I understand.”

  He nodded. “Go talk to him, then. I’ll give you the phone number and address.”

  Mike sighed again, and Tommy shook his head and smiled.

  “Hey, Toni, take Leo with you—Okay?”

  “Not in her uniform. He won’t talk to me.”

  “I didn’t say she had to be in uniform. Just take her, and tell her I said to wear that ankle holster I gave her.”

  I sighed, “Right.”

  “Tommy’s rules, Mario.”

  “I heard, son.”

  My Black Beauty rumbled to a stop in front of a dinky frame house in one of the old Central/West Austin neighborhoods. There were rows of small one-story houses on narrow little lots. Built in the late 1940s and early 1950s for the postwar set, it was affordable middle-class housing for mostly blue-collar folk…pretty stylish then, but out-of-date now and way overpriced. The houses were pretty lightweight stuff compared to the new construction in Austin, but people lived in these neighborhoods for the convenience and the atmosphere of Central/West Austin.

  Jimmy’s house was chartreuse with brown and magenta trim and a tin roof—and that was the refurbished look. The yard was marginal—a combination of Bermuda grass and weeds with patches of hard, dry dirt. The shrubs that went across the front of the house were patchy—one green and looking fairly healthy, but shaggy, next to another that looked more like tumbleweed. There was a gravel driveway that led to the carport, where his 1968 Ford pickup truck was parked. It was dark green, with patches of primer and brown paint. There was a bumper sticker on the back with the symbol of the POWs/MIAs and the slogan Lest We Forget, and the back windshield bore the emblem of the United States Marines, next to which was another bumper sticker that simply read, Semper Fi.

  “Interesting color scheme,” Leo said.

  “At least the door is brown,” I said as I knocked on the door frame.

  Jimmy Hughes came to the door wearing an undershirt and faded, torn blue jeans—there were no shoes on his feet. A chocolate-brown Lab stood by his side. He stared at us from behind the screen door. He was about six feet tall, slim, with a narrow face and square chin. He had piercing light blue eyes and long dark eyelashes. His gray hair was thin on top with a receding hairline, but it was long in back and pulled into a ponytail held by a green rubber band. The most noticeable thing about Jimmy’s appearance was a long scar that ran down the left cheek, and burn wounds on either cheek and near his left eye.

  “Jimmy Hughes?”

  “Yeah,” he said suspiciously.

  “My name is Toni, and I’m the artist who sculpted the face of Addie Russell that you saw on the news.”

  “Oh yeah?” His face brightened just a bit.

  “Would you mind if we came in and talked just awhile? I’d like to know more about her.”

  He looked at Leo and squinted.

  “This is my friend, Leo.”

  “Y’all work for the cops?”

  “No,” I said.

  It was true. Neither Leo nor I were employed by the police. I was a freelance artist who contracted with anyone who requested my services, and Leo was employed by the AFD, although technically she was a law enforcement officer. He looked us both over carefully and then motioned us in.

  “It ain’t fancy, nor even neat,” he said as we entered.

  There were books and magazines scattered about on the floor and on any even surface in the room—coffee table, end table, bookshelf—you name it. An old recliner sat on one end of the living room, right across from a small TV. The recliner was upholstered in a tacky plaid and it had a large hole in the fabric on one arm. There was a guitar leaning up against the wall next to the recliner. Jimmy motioned us to the sofa, which was also worn, but was one of the only places in the room not covered with books and magazines.

  Nodding toward the guitar I said, “You play?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said, “I play a couple of gigs a week with some guys. We play rhythm and blues.”

  “My husband and I used to listen to that kind of music. There was a man in my husband’s unit in Vietnam who used to play guitar for us in the evenings. That is, when we weren’t on duty or under mortar fire.”

  He turned his head and leaned toward me on the edge of his chair. “You were in ’Nam?”

  I nodded. “U.S. Air Force. I was a nurse in Da Nang. My husband and I met over there.”

  He relaxed almost instantly.

  “I was in the marines. I was in Da Nang for
a while, too.”

  “We had a lot of friends who were marines,” I said. “When were you there?”

  “I was ‘in country’ 1968 to 1970. I was in Da Nang toward the end of 1968 and some of 1969.”

  “We were already gone by then,” I said.

  He nodded. We sat quietly for a few seconds.

  “Is that how you make your living, Jimmy—playing the guitar?”

  “Well, it’s one way. I do some writing for the Freedom Journal.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of that paper.”

  It was a strange paper that had an occasional good article, but most of their pieces were pretty much all over the map.

  “It doesn’t pay much, but I get a little bit per article. Then I also work down at the canoe and paddleboat rental place on Barton Creek.”

  “I know that place,” Leo said. “So, are you a boater yourself?”

  “I like to go out on the water, paddle up and down Town Lake and just think sometimes. It’s quiet out there and sometimes I just need that kind of quiet.”

  “I can relate to that,” I said.

  I looked at Leo and caught her eye. Leo and I looked at each other, and I knew she was thinking what I was about the canoeing. Then I glanced down and saw a pair of hiking boots on the floor near his chair. They had red clay caked up all around the soles. I recognized that thick red clay—it was the same red clay I had on my boots from Red Bud Isle that morning we dug up Addie Waldrep’s bones. It could be a coincidence, but I still wondered about it.

  “So, Jimmy, would you mind telling me about Addie—how you knew her?”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “I reconstructed her face and I guess I got a little attached to her.”

  The expression on his face was strange in response to my words—I couldn’t tell if it was sorrow or nervousness. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Well, uh, we grew up together in this little-bitty town. You probably never heard of it—Viola?”

  “Actually, I have heard of it. It’s up near Giddings, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, that’s right. Well, Addie was about four years younger than me, but I knew her since she was born. Her family lived just down the road from mine, and we went to the same school.”

  “Was she an only child?”

  “No. She had a brother. I think he lives in Houston now.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “My baby brother, Vernon, lives in Rock Hill right near Viola. Mama lives there now, too. My other little brother, Doug, moved there first, then Vernon and Mama did, too.”

  “You don’t live there anymore.”

  “When I got back from ’Nam, I couldn’t live there anymore. Everything was different. I didn’t like it. I moved here. I like it here.”

  I nodded. He fidgeted with his hands, and shifted in his chair a lot. His mood seemed to swing from being more at ease to eyeing us suspiciously. I tried to keep my questions in the “innocent” category, to draw him out and see if he would volunteer anything to me.

  “So, you knew Addie in Viola growing up, but your family moved to Rock Hill. When did your family move?”

  “Not long after I got back from ’Nam, my daddy died and I moved here. Doug bought a place down at Rock Hill, and that’s when they all moved. It’s nice, I guess. Vernon runs Doug’s place now.”

  That was the opening I was waiting for.

  “Where is Doug?”

  He looked nervous, and started to look angry. He glanced down at the floor and his aspect changed, and he looked up and said, “Doug went missing about the time Addie did.”

  I acted surprised. “Oh.” I waited in silence, but my gaze never left him.

  He sighed. “Rumor was that he and Addie had something going. Then they disappeared at exactly the same time.”

  “What do you think—was he involved with Addie?”

  He became more agitated. “No way.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just do, that’s all.”

  “You’ve never heard from Doug?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t you think that was strange?”

  “Well, of course I thought it was strange,” he snapped. “But what was I going to do about it?”

  He leaned back in the chair now. He crossed his right foot over on top of his left leg. He was about to shut down on me, and I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted to know what he was withholding.

  “I’m sorry, Jimmy, I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I guess I was just surprised that you hadn’t heard from him.”

  He sat forward in the chair and rubbed his hands together while looking down at his feet.

  “It just upsets me is all.”

  He shrugged. I wanted to ask him all my questions, get the answers and leave, but he would never give up the information that way. I had to play my game, and go slowly. It was nerve-wracking. I looked over at Leo, who had been watching him carefully the whole time. She nodded slightly as if to confirm that I should continue.

  “Tell me more about Addie, Jimmy.”

  He lightened up a little, and then said, “Well, she was real pretty when we were kids. I had a crush on her, but she was fourteen, so I knew I had to wait till she was old enough to date. I got called to ’Nam, so I enlisted with the marines. I went off to ’Nam and she was all I thought about. I dreamed about being able to come back home and see Addie.”

  “What happened?”

  “When I got home she was already dating a guy named Dody Waldrep. I thought they’d break up. I didn’t think he was right for her. I figured she’d figure that out, but she stuck with him. He never did deserve her.”

  I wondered if Jimmy thought anyone deserved Addie Russell Waldrep.

  “Is that why you’re so sure she wasn’t involved with your brother?”

  He knitted his forehead and rubbed his hands together harder.

  “I told you, I just know, that’s all.” He got up out of his chair. “Listen, I don’t feel like talking anymore. I got things to do before my gig tonight.”

  We were being shuttled out. I hadn’t learned as much as I wanted, but I had learned what Jimmy Hughes didn’t want to talk about, and what he didn’t want to say might prove to be more interesting than anything he had said.

  Chapter Eight

  My son and his partner attended a lot of funerals. Serial killings get a lot of attention in the news, but the vast majority of killings are personal in nature, committed by someone the victim knew. Because of that, it’s likely that the murderer might show up at the funeral, or that someone’s absence from the funeral, or actions at the funeral, might be of note. Mike and Tommy routinely attended the funerals of the victims in their cases just so they could observe all the people who were and were not there. Such was the case with the funeral of Addie Waldrep.

  Addie Waldrep had been missing for sixteen years. It was assumed that she had run off with Doug Hughes, who was thought to be her lover and who had also been missing for sixteen years. No one had ever heard from either one of them again. Now the question on all of our minds was who had killed her, and whether Doug himself had become a victim also. The list of suspects was just beginning to be developed, and at least for now even the missing Doug Hughes was on the list.

  At the time of Addie’s disappearance, she and her husband, Dody, and their two daughters had been living in Viola, which is about an hour southeast of Austin. It was a small spot on one of those farm-to-market roads off of Highway 290. Viola was their hometown.

  There had been rumors about Addie’s relationship with Doug. Doug had lived in Rock Hill just as Jimmy had told us. Doug ran what became his family’s farm. His father had died, Doug had bought the farm in Rock Hill, and he and his brother Vernon worked the farm together. His mother still lived there, and Vernon and his wife and family lived there, too.

  One day Doug and Addie had simply disappeared. Now Addie had been found. No one had seen or heard from Doug since he disappeared
with Addie.

  Still, rumors or no, Maureen Russell and Doug’s mother, Gloria Hughes, never believed that their children were either having an affair or had run off together. Maureen made it clear to Mike and Tommy that she considered Dody Waldrep to be the prime suspect in the death of her daughter. The question was whether she based that on any real suspicion, or just on the fact that she despised Dody—and she made no bones about the fact that she did despise him.

  Gloria Hughes had told Mike and Tommy that Doug had a girlfriend—a young girl named Lori Webster. Lori lived in Georgetown now, and the boys had gone to speak to her before the funeral, but I had not had time to get the details of that interview.

  Addie’s funeral was in the nearby town of Giddings—a metropolis compared to Viola and Rock Hill. The burial would be in a little community cemetery in Viola where Addie’s two daughters lived with Maureen Russell. It seemed that Dody had a drinking problem. So the girls had gone to live with their grandmother. Dody had moved to Manor, got himself a house out on an acre of land and a job in Austin working for a plumbing company. The girls rarely saw him. They didn’t even remember their mother.

  Standing in the funeral home next to my son and Tommy, I could see down the aisle to the family section. The two girls sat looking sad and confused next to Mrs. Russell. Mrs. Russell wept unceasingly for her daughter, wiping her eyes and nose. It seemed that everyone in the town was there, and after paying respects to Addie, each person filed past her mother and two children and gave their condolences. Mike informed me that Lori Webster was not there.

  I smelled him before I saw him. The rank smell of nicotine was the first attack on my olfactory senses. Then the too-sweet smell of last night’s bourbon joined the wave of putrid odors that washed my way as he passed down the aisle. I looked to my right to see who this was as he passed by.

  Michael nudged me slightly with his elbow. “Dody Waldrep,” he whispered.

  I nodded.

  In his wake, new odors assaulted me—now, the stale smell of unwashed hair mixed with the sourness of sweat. Dody looked about ten or fifteen years older than Mike had told me he was. He was thin and his skin was weathered and flushed from an obvious alcohol habit. He wore khaki workman’s trousers over his skinny legs, and a worn plaid shirt was stretched over his protruding beer gut and tucked into the waistband of his pants. Except for the gut, Dody Waldrep was so thin and frail, that I imagine he’d have weighed a hundred forty pounds soaking wet. His thin, greasy hair was combed straight back from his ruddy face.