Wounded Badge Vista

by Kieran York

  “I’ve never known him to drink. He talked against it. Three men.” She hesitated. “My father gave up what he called his early days when he was still a teenager. It caused a rift between Dad and his cousin Eddy.”

  “Eddy was one of the men your father mentioned.”

  “And I’m guessing the other was Milton Odell. My grandmother always said they were very bad examples and forbade my father from hanging out with them. Eddy and Milton must have led Dad astray.”

  “From what the victim said, she described your father as being the least involved. But involved enough to rape.”

  “I just can’t get my mind around it. Dad cared for my mother when she was ill. He was always doing something for someone. Giving to charities. Dogs in the pound. Everything. Mom would say that he worked all week, then helped neighbors, and those in need on weekends. She asked him why. It never made sense to me before.”

  Royce inquired, “What was his answer?”

  “He’d always said he was doing his penance.” But no one could believe he’d ever need to be penitent.”

  After Royce and Diane McGill parted, Royce drove back to Timber City. The long arm of the law was meant to be one of justice, Royce thought. From one side it was justice, and the other it was a battering ram serving justice.

  Royce was glad that Hertha had inherited only the good similarities from her paternal side.

  ***

  When Royce finally arrived, Hertha was closing up the High Country Office. “How did it go?” she questioned her lover.

  “He confessed immediately. He wants to make amends, and in any way he can. Hertha, he lost his son during the war. Your half-brother was a Marine.”

  “What was he Gregory Corby like?” She seemed puzzled.

  “You’ll be pleased to hear that he was the one with the limp. He’d been in a childhood accident, and it permanently disabled him. He was the one your mother said tried to be nice, and attempted to talk the others out of it.”

  “He raped my mother,” she tersely spoke.

  “I thought you’d be pleased that the DNA was his, rather than the other two.”

  “It doesn’t mean I don’t have the DNA of a rapist. The blood coursing through my arteries is his. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “Hertha, I’m doing all I can. I’ve done as you wanted. Checked the crime, verified. And done the bidding on this. And as far as the charges go, it’s down to the man who fathered you. His cousin died of cancer when he was thirty. The other rapist has been imprisoned for over twenty-five years. Murder and assault. He’ll never go free. And yes, I am very glad that you got the DNA of Greg Corby, rather than of the other two.”

  Hertha threw down the towel she was carrying. “I’m doing this to punish the guilty. They changed my mother’s life. The fear she experienced was with her for every year she lived from fourteen to when she died. There were so many times she showed the pain in her eyes.”

  “I honestly believe that your mother went through hell. But I don’t think if she had to choose it, and choose giving birth to you, she would have changed it. She was so proud of you, and loved you so dearly.”

  “Royce, you aren’t getting it. My mother’s honor was taken from her. They took her innocence and her honor.”

  “I think they may have stolen her innocence. But they didn’t take her honor. Your mother was one of the most honorable women to live. And in my estimation, she brought the most honorable woman alive into this world.”

  “I’m sorry, Royce. I know you’re trying to help. Yes, I want to bring charges. And even if Greg Corby spends a day incarcerated, it’s better than nothing. At least he’s paid something.”

  She stepped into Royce’s arms. Royce kissed the side of her face. She had seen the hurt in Hertha’s mother’s eyes and in Hertha’s eyes. She’d also seen Greg Corby’s face. Perhaps he would never pay enough, but Royce thought, he had paid some penance. And his confession was the most contrite she’d heard. But Hertha didn’t want to hear that.

  Twisted logic; twisted justice; twisted reparation, and sometimes no answer was valid enough to explain it.

  “Do you want to meet him before you continue with making a charge?”

  “No. Not really.” She pulled away. “Do you want me to meet him?’

  “Only if you want. Hertha, he’s no longer a young man. He’s your biological parent, and it may be your only chance to meet him. Know him.”

  “Why would I want to know him?”

  “If nothing more, you could tell him of your mother. Talk about what a lovely woman your mother was.”

  “Do you think he’d care?”

  “Yes.” Royce repeated, “Yes. I do.”

  Chapter 17

  The night in Hertha’s arms settled some of Royce’s dark dreams. Still, she was vexed with thoughts of the assumed killer Buckley Eisner and his unidentified assistant to murder – AKA Mimic Maiden. Then there were also those emotions linked to the encounter with Hertha’s family.

  Events dealing with the murder and attempted murder seemed so completely impossible. Every move enforcement would make, Eisner retaliated. It had taken enormous investigative efforts to be where they were. Royce felt certain that Luther Sumner was the instigator. The name identified as the shooter was Buckley Eisner. Yet there was no way to be certain until the shooter was captured.

  Nick would soon be transported to Denver for rehabilitation. The hospital would be appearing to have Nick in Crystal General Hospital. This subterfuge would hide Nick from danger. He would be safe. Royce realized that she remained endangered. And would not be safe until a resolution was reached. Satisfactorily, she hoped.

  She felt anger from the frustration she was feeling. Usually, Royce was patient. Today, not so much. Royce continued her morning routine. She showered, then attempted to be upbeat at the breakfast table. When Vannie asked why she was quiet, Antero answered that the criminal was still loose. Royce’s eyes narrowed, and she swallowed her grin. “But not for long.”

  “Mom said you’d find him so he couldn’t hurt anyone else,” Vannie reinforced her positive outlook. “And soon.”

  Hertha was silent, and Royce was uncertain if she might be worried about the case, or about her father. Royce made an attempt to bring little levity in. “And, sometime soon we’re going to do something special. I’m going to take you two little gold miners to visit a friend. He’s setting up his mining equipment, and invited us to watch him. And maybe pan a little gold. How’s that sound?”

  When the children’s few minutes of excitement settled down, Hertha shook her head. “Royce, you do realize they aren’t going stop bothering you until you take them?”

  “I said soon,” Royce chuckled. The sheriff was overjoyed when her phone rang. Quickly she stood, hugged Hertha and the kids, then grabbed her hat and rushed to the door. “I’ve got a call I’ve got to go on.”

  She whistled for Chance. She drove quickly to the Bart and Mary Newton residence. A deputy was already there, and an ambulance was just pulling in. Royce walked by the deputy, and saw Mary Newton on the floor. The deputy nodded, then explained to Royce that when he got there, her breathing was shallow, and he thought he’d better call in a bus.

  Mary had been beaten, and by the time ETMs were working on her, she was sitting up. “I don’t need this hubbub. I’ll be okay in a minute.” Her face was pallid. Her eyelids drooping.

  “How did you get the black eye and battered face?” Royce questioned.

  “I’m fine. I just fell down. Please, everyone go away.”

  “Mary, we’re getting you medical attention.” Not only was her breathing difficult, her body was shaking. Color was diming from her face. “Mary, we’ve got to have you checked out. Is Bart in the backyard, or upstairs?”

  “He left. Sheriff, when he heard the siren, he left out the back way. Please, go.”

  “Not this time, Mary.” Royce went across the room, then looked into the backyard. Royce called a BOLO for Bart and asked that
he be brought in. “Mary, I’ve talked with him too many times. I’m going to be arresting him. Did he take a gun? Or did he have one in his car?”

  “No, he left on foot. The car’s still there.” She sobbed, “If you do this, he’s going to kill me. He told me that half an hour ago.”

  “The medics are going to get you fixed up. They’ll take care of you and they’ll make certain that you are safe for the day and tonight. We’re going to be picking up Bart ASAP.”

  “He’s so agitated now, he’ll fight you.” Mary’s eye showed her fear, and her concern. If I go to Colorado Springs to stay with my family, he’ll follow. I know I’m endangered. I don’t want my family hurt. Bart is my problem.”

  “He is his own problem. There are safe houses in Colorado Springs. That way you can be near your family. Mary, I can make certain he’s jailed for a few weeks. It’s your decision.”

  “He was behaving for a while. This is the worst it’s been.”

  “His temper, drinking – it will probably accelerate. We’ll do what we can. But life is precious, and you should have happiness.”

  Mary’s eyes were fearful, Royce thought. But they also seemed lost. Perhaps, Royce pondered, she might be making excuses for him. It was an age-old story. Power over a woman can become a self-privation of her soul. Royce considered although a ‘couple’ issued a forfeiture of a portion of their souls, it was to be called love. It was a trade-off. Maybe it was a gifting, asking for one another’s trust and care. But if misplaced, it could batter a woman.

  ***

  Although the deputies continued looking for Bart Newton, Royce’s best guess was that Bart had found a place to sleep it off during the day. Night, would have sobered him up some, and the evening coolness would chase him back to his home. It would be surveilled, and they might capture him.

  All his haunts, and what few friends he had were on the contact list. Royce and Chance drove up to where the hobo jungle was located. There were a number of men, including Claude, Spuds, and Duffy. Royce went immediately to them, and asked about Bart. They all knew him, but he wasn’t there.

  Spuds had been cooking potatoes, and vegetables. Duffy disclosed, “Spuds got his name for making potatoes tasty.”

  Royce smile. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Your Mama give us bread ever so often,” Duffy tipped his hat. “Give her my regards. And if she ever has any of that raisin bread she makes left over, I sure as blazes wouldn’t mind some. She’s a good woman, Molly is.”

  “That she is, and I’ll mention the raisin bread,” Royce agreed. “I’ve been so busy lately; I haven’t been able to chat much with Mom.”

  “I hear the fella that you think shot Nick is a gunnin’ for you, too.”

  “It’s possible. You’ve seen the flyers, haven’t you?”

  “We look, but nobody like that comes this way,” Spuds announced. “But Bart came up here a couple a times a while back. Not now, though.”

  “If you see the two people on the flyer, please let me know. And if Bart makes it this far, please tell him to turn himself in.”

  “He ain’t gonna be turnin’ himself in,” Clyde muttered. “Not while he’s got a binge a goin’ he’ll be stayin’ away from any badges.”

  Royce nodded goodbye. Clyde had an understanding of the situation. He could have given up being a hobo, and he could have become a crime profiler. There’s so much ‘could have’ in the world, Royce speculated.

  She turned back to them, “And I appreciate you fellas watching for the criminals.”

  “We’ll do our best,” Spuds yelled after her. “As I said, you ain’t so bad, after all.”

  She grinned back at them. “You fellas might be crossing over to the lighted side.” Much more likely, Molly’s raisin bread figured into the equation.

  ***

  “Spuds Flanagan sends regards, and said not to throw away any of your raisin bread.” She sat at the counter. Molly poured the sheriff a cup of coffee. She automatically plated a plump piece of cherry pie and sat it on the counter. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Molly chuckled. “I’ll make an extra batch of raisin bread first of the week. Maybe you can drop it by for the fellas on your way to Crystal.”

  The door suddenly flapped open. Gwen greeted Molly and Royce. “Time keeps slipping away and I keep getting busier and busier.” Her fingers ran through her hair. “And I keep getting older and older. The news industry is chaos. The state of the world is not a harmonious delight.”

  Royce acknowledged Gwen. “I’m finding less harmonious delight because this danged case is creeping along,” Royce grumbled.

  Gwen frowned. “I’ve been getting updates from Sam because I know you’re always busy these days,” Gwen said. “That Sam makes things all happy, and fine. I sure like getting my morning news reports from him instead of you, Royce.”

  Teasingly, Royce shrugged and frowned. “Well, you can keep on getting news from my colleague, Sunshine Sam. I’ve got no news, and certainly no good news.”

  “Speaking of bad news, we heard about Mary Newton. Will you let us know when you capture that jackass husband of hers?”

  Royce sarcastically answered, “Bart Newton is taking a few days to recover, and sleeping it off. Battering a woman must be strenuous work.”

  Molly’s sympathetic voice uttered, “I can’t understand why she stays with him.”

  Gwen agreed, “It’s a mystery to me. He’s twice her size, and maybe she’s afraid he’ll kill her. He might be on his way back to Oklahoma City, where he came from.”

  “He can’t get far enough away from me,” Royce’s calm voice veiled her distain for the man.

  Gwen rephrased her request. “Well, will you call when you locate him? You know when he’s cuffed and you’re leading him into jail? I’d like to get a frontpage photo op of what a wife-batterer looks like being hauled away in handcuffs.”

  “I wouldn’t mind for people to see a photo of Mary Newton sprawled on the floor and covered with blood.” Royce’s jawbone clenched. “She wasn’t doing well at all.”

  “Yes, another good frontpage story.” Gwen ordered, “Pie with my coffee, please Molly. And let’s make it apple pie.”

  Royce pressed a forkful of cherry pie between her lips. Even her mother’s award-winning pie was tasteless.

  “And for goodness sakes, let us know if you capture the killer,” Gwen instructed.

  Royce noticed her old friend Gwen used the word ‘if’ rather than ‘when’ – even her allies doubted that this killer would be caught.

  The spirit-like invisibility of Eisner and his gun-mall was becoming legendary.

  Royce would return to her office, sift through reports, attempt to gain some grain of evidence that could be converted into a court document. A guilty verdict. The clues were piecemeal. All over the board. So many answers were speeding away from her. And so many questions were rushing toward her.

  Although Royce had called down her bodyguards, she could feel the prolonged, bogus glimpses in her direction. Anyone in uniform was visually following her. She thought it ungrateful if she attempted to lose them. Although they were not obvious about casing after her, it seemed she never left their sight. The force was now retaining surveillance, via that old panoramic glance in her direction. They were still caring for their threatened sheriff.

  Chapter 18

  Plato motioned to Royce as soon as the sheriff had walked onto Main Street. She followed when he ducked behind the buildings, and hobbled down the alleyway.

  “Have you got something?”

  “Yep, I do. I got food, fresh information. Bart Newton has been wandering around downtown. Backstreets. He keeps movin’ and keeps drinkin’.”

  “Any idea where he’s staying now?”

  “No tellin’. Could be anywhere at all.”

  “You know for sure he’s around downtown?”

  “Yep. Well, I seen him liftin’ some hooch from Faye’s place yesterday mornin’. They open up the backdoor for a booze deliver
y. He watches, and slips in the backroom and takes him a bottle or two. Anyway, he even did that the mornin’ after he beat up poor Mary.”

  “I’ll check it out. Thanks, Plato. Excellent work.”

  “I seen you’re a checkin’ lots, you’re out chasing them killers and that danged Bart. Must be wearin’ your boots’ leather soles clean through.” His cackle was always the same. And always amusing to Royce.

  After slipping him a few dollars, she walked around back to Main Street. The Bell Ringer had just opened. Several men, in for their morning imbibing, were seated at the bar. Richard the Wandering Troubadour, as he was billed, was playing a few numbers on the piano.

  “I like you morning music, Richard,” she praised.

  He gave a doff of his hat. “I like to exercise my fingers in the morning. They stiffen up overnight. And I have a penchant for music first thing.”

  “When everything settles down, Hertha and I are going to bring the kids in to meet you. We’re trying to keep them interested in music. Their piano lessons don’t seem to entice them.”

  “Keep it fun for them to learn music,” he encouraged. “When things slow down for you, I’d love to meet them. I’ll show them some fast-track tricks to make even a novice sound professional. Then they’ll love their piano.”

  Royce smiled. She wasn’t certain the children’s piano teacher would allow them to drift from practicing the scales. But what she did know, the children couldn’t help enjoy Richard’s enthusiasm for music. As long as the kids kept loving music – with or without musical scales, Hertha and Royce would be glad.

  Faye motioned for Royce. Faye chided, “You look like you’re on official business.”

  “Yes. I’m wearing my cop face. A confidential source told me that Bart Newton hangs out when you’ve got deliveries. He slips in your storeroom and lifts a bottle or two.”

  “I’ve suspected something like that was happening the last couple mornings. My orders show shortages. I’ll get my strongman to watch the door.”