Bitterroot Blues

by Paul Moomaw

  “You got the blood off everywhere but there, David. But you missed that spot. I bet you anything you want to bet that we both know whose blood the lab is going to find from that little crack.” Rentz paused again. “What do you think about that, David?”

  Crisp sat for a long time. “I think I want a lawyer now,” he finally said.

  “Lawyer won’t help you now, you son of a bitch,” Arceneaux said from behind the window, and stood up.

  Walking back toward Barbara Drake’s office, Arceneaux could not contain a rising sense of triumph.

  “You’ve got to keep pressing now, Barb,” he said.

  “That’s my job,” she responded.

  “I don’t just mean on Laura Hooters. Tyler may have just been making it up as he went, but he was dead right about Wallace and Samantha. Crisp killed them.”

  “There you go again, Sam.”

  “He did it, except Tyler probably got it backwards. Crisp went there to kill Samantha, because she was about to blow his cover; and Wallace was the target of opportunity.”

  “Let me remind you that we don’t have any evidence at all that Crisp was anywhere near the Double Pine on the night of the murders.” Drake sounded exasperated.

  Arceneaux started to shut up, then remembered something Lorena Zimmerman had told him.

  “There were two trucks there that night,” he said.

  “Right,” Drake said. “And the only one that counts belongs to Arden Marks.”

  “But you have a witness who saw the other one at the right time, and she says that second truck had a vanity plate. She said she couldn’t read it, but it definitely was a plate with words, not numbers. Crisp’s truck has that kind of plate, right?”

  “The witness also said she saw a green truck,” Drake said. “Even in bad light, I don’t think she would confuse green with brilliant yellow.” She tapped Arceneaux lightly on the shoulder. “Good try, Sam, but give it up. I’ve got Arden Marks for Samantha, and I intend to keep him.”

  That night Arceneaux and Anne had dinner at Pearl’s Cafe, a small but pricey downtown bistro that offered one of the best meals in Missoula. Anne had won a major drug case, which was especially good for making points with the County Attorney because the better part of her salary was paid out of a federal grant from the Drug Enforcement Administration. She wanted to celebrate, and Arceneaux had been more than willing to help, on the condition that they go Dutch treat. She had protested, because she had twice his income on his good days.

  “Just chalk it up to my male chauvinism and go along,” he had said, and she had given in. Now he was taking advantage of her company to whine about Crisp and Barbara Drake.

  “She is absolutely determined to hang those murders on my client, and she won’t listen to reason.”

  “But she’s right about the truck, isn’t she?” Anne said.

  “I guess. But still . . .”

  Anne held up a finger. “Wait a minute. Didn’t you tell me somewhere along the line that Crisp’s truck was new? How long has he had it?”

  “Son of a bitch,” Arceneaux said. “I forgot that.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “I know this isn’t polite,” he said. “But it will only take a second.” He scrolled through the telephone’s list of numbers, located the one that belonged to Anna Mae Preston, and punched it in. She answered on the third ring.

  Arceneaux identified himself. “I have a quick question,” he said. “You mentioned that David Crisp had bought that yellow truck recently. Do you remember when it was?”

  “Let me think,” Anna Mae replied. “I’m not sure exactly, but it wasn’t very long ago. In fact, it was right around the time Samantha was killed, only I can’t remember if it was just before or just after.”

  “Do you remember what make the old truck was?”

  “It was an International Harvester. One of those puke green Forest Service jobs. He probably got it at an auction. It had four doors, just like the new one.” She paused, then said, “Does that help?”

  “You bet,” Arceneaux replied. “I owe you one.” He hung up and smiled. “Inland Empire,” he murmured. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Spokane.”

  Anne stated at him suspiciously. “You’ve got that wild goose chase look in your eyes, Sam,” she said.

  Arceneaux shook his head. “The only goose I’m seeing belongs to David Crisp,” he said. “And I’m about to cook it for him.”

  Chapter 37

  The Inland Empire Ford dealership was actually two huge complexes, one for new vehicles and a second for used, in the valley that holds the eastern parts of Spokane. The business had been on the outskirts of town when it was founded in the Seventies. Now it was just one more expanse of pavement in an urban sprawl that had gradually spread toward the Idaho border, and then across it, swallowing up the once tiny village of Post Falls, and now stalking the fringes of Lake Coeur D’Alene. Arceneaux began his quest at the new truck lot, wandering among dozens of trucks, most of them oversized by his standards, until a salesman detached himself from a small group of people and headed his way.

  “Great day to buy a truck,” the salesman said, and extended his hand. “I’m Chip,” he said. “How many of these babies can I sell you?”

  Arceneaux took the hand and shook it. “Actually, I’m looking for a special one.” He looked around. “A friend of mine bought one of your rigs a few weeks ago. Guy from Hamilton, Montana.”

  “Bought an F-350?” Chip asked. Arceneaux nodded. “I think I sold it to him,” Chip said. “Guy named Dave, right?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Man, you Montanans drive a hard bargain,” Chip said, smiling at Arceneaux as if he had just given him the world’s best compliment. “Good Old Dave, he wanted the world for fifty cents, and I swear he wound up getting it for seventy-five. You’re not going to be that hard to deal with, are you?”

  “Oh, I’m pretty easy,” Arceneaux said.

  “Good. Good.” Chip nodded and waved toward the trucks that surrounded them. “Old Dave, he found one truck he really wanted, but it had a convenience package, you know, extra electronics, remote mirrors, stereo to die for, and he didn’t want to pay the extra for it. I thought I had lost the sale for sure, but he wanted that truck bad, and he said he couldn’t wait for us to order one that didn’t have the extras. We finally cut a deal, though. I took more than half off the price for the package, and he drove away a happy man. Of course, I couldn’t offer his as good a trade-in on his old truck, but he didn’t seem to mind that when push came to shove. Just jumped in that big old Ford and took off.”

  “Actually, Arceneaux said, “I came here looking to buy his old truck, if it’s still around.”

  Chip frowned and snapped his fingers. “That truck was kind of a piece of crap, if you want to know the truth.”

  Arceneaux shook his head. “The body was a little beat up, but he kept the engine in mint condition, and I think it even had new tires on it.”

  Chip had already detached, and was scanning the lot for a new mark. “You’ll have to check out the used truck lot,” he said. “I don’t have any idea if your friend’s truck is still there.”

  Arceneaux could not help but smile at the way Good Old Dave had become “your friend.” He nodded and said, “Thanks,” and headed toward the front of the dealership, where he had parked the Subaru. Just as glad he didn’t see my heap, he thought, as he climbed in and headed for the other lot.

  The used vehicle lot was wrapped around the dealership’s repair facility, about a quarter mile down South Division from the new cars. This time the salesman was older, and overweight, with the look of someone who had been in the business too long. Arceneaux was the only prospect on the lot, and the salesman walked rapidly toward him. The exertion had him breathing a little hard, and he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, then said, “Great day to buy a truck.”

  That must be the company mantra, Arceneaux thought. “I expect every day is a great day to buy
a truck,” he said.

  “A man’s got to have a truck,” the salesman said. He did not introduce himself or offer his hand, and Arceneaux was glad.

  The salesman looked Arceneaux up and down. “You’re gonna want something with a little room, I imagine,” he said.

  “I’m looking for a specific truck, matter of fact,” Arceneaux said. “Friend of mine bought a new Ford from you guys a few weeks ago and traded his old truck in. It was in pretty good shape, and I was kind of hoping it might still be available.”

  “What kind of truck?” the salesman said.

  “It’s an older truck, a four-door International Harvester. I think it started out life with the Forest Service.”

  The salesman thought for a moment, then nodded and pointed at a spot behind Arceneaux’s back. “I think I know the one you mean, and you got here just in time.” He began to walk again, more slowly this time, in the direction of a chain link fence. “It’s in the haul-off yard,” he said. He led Arceneaux through an opening in the fence and into an area containing a dozen elderly vehicles, then pointed. There, next to the fence on the far side, was a green International Harvester with four doors.

  “I especially remember this one, because when they dropped it here it still had license plates, go something, if I recall, and the guy who had traded it came over all upset because he wanted his plates. You would have thought they were solid gold, the fuss he made. Really pissed me off, if you want to know, but he didn’t look like the kind of guy you want to take a swing at.” He stopped talking and threw Arceneaux a quick look. “He a friend of yours?”

  “Just an acquaintance. Somebody else told me he had traded the truck, and I’ve been looking for something tough that I could afford.”

  “You’re lucky it’s still here, then. Some kid saw it right after it came in, and wanted to buy it. Said it was his dream truck. He gave me a hundred dollars to hold it and said he would have the rest of the cash pretty quick. Trouble is, it wasn’t his dad’s dream truck. He got pretty pissed, too, because I could only give the kid eighty dollars back. That’s company policy.”

  “Let me take a look,” Arceneaux said.

  “To tell the truth, the boss decided not to bother trying to sell it, so it gets hauled away for salvage. That way the company at least gets a little back on it.”

  “Maybe you would have sold it if you cleaned it up some,” Arceneaux said. “It still has pieces of Lookout Pass on the rocker plates.”

  The salesman nodded. “Like I said, it had barely hit the lot when the kid wanted to buy it. He was willing to take it as is. Then, since we were going to dump it, there was no reason to waste soap and water on it. The junk yard doesn’t care.”

  Arceneaux opened the driver’s door and looked in. The bench seat was hidden under a grimy cover that had been nice-looking sheep skin once upon a time.

  “We’ll take that off for you if you want to buy the truck,” the salesman said. “It’s not too choice, I admit. Looks like the guy must have field stripped a deer and forgot to wash his hands afterwards.” He pointed to a dark spot on the passenger side of the seat.

  Arceneaux looked at the spot and almost stopped breathing. It was roughly the shape of a hand, fingers and all, and it did, indeed, look like dried blood. He closed the truck door. “How much?” he asked.

  “I can let you have that baby for only nine hundred dollars,” the salesman said.

  “Are you kidding me?” Arceneaux said. “This thing is a relic. I’ll have to put a lot of work into it.”

  “Runs good as new,” the salesman said. “And it’s been sitting here for weeks. It cost us good money to keep it on the lot.” He fell silent for a moment. “And I have to make a living, just like you.”

  “Five hundred,” Arceneaux said. Elbert Marks might quibble about his spending that second check on a used truck, but if it helped clear his brother he would have nothing to complain about.

  “My boss will never go for that,” the salesman said.

  “How much will your boss get from the junk man?” Arceneaux said.

  The salesman tilted his head and looked to one side, but did not reply.

  “Better,” Arceneaux went on, “how much commission will you get if it goes for salvage?”

  “Nothing,” the salesman replied.

  “And how much commission will you get if you sell it to me for five hundred?”

  “Next to nothing.”

  “Which is better?”

  The salesman stood silently for a moment, then broke into a loud laugh. “Okay,” he said. “But five fifty.”

  “Deal,” Arceneaux said.

  Two hours later he was on the road, the green truck now connected to a U-Haul towing frame, and the Subaru attached to that, hoping the combined rig would make it over Fourth of July Pass, and then Lookout Pass, and finally back down to Missoula. If he had guessed right, David Crisp really would be toast. He laughed. He still liked that joke, even if nobody else did. And if he had guessed wrong, no big deal. It would not be the first time, or the last for that matter, that he had looked a little foolish.

  Chapter 38

  Arceneaux did not have to ask to observe the next time they brought David Crisp into the interrogation room. Barbara Drake had offered him the chance, as his reward for bringing in the truck and its bloodstained seat cover. This time Arceneaux shared the observation space with Tyler Rentz, and Drake sat on the other side of the mirror with Crisp and his attorney, Milt Kouris.

  “The drug business must have paid pretty well,” Arceneaux said to Rentz. “Kouris doesn’t come cheap. I hear his minimal retainer in a criminal case is ten grand.”

  “Maybe Crisp sold his truck,” Rentz said. “He isn’t going to need it for a long time.”

  Drake turned on the tape recorder. “Today is Friday, November eighteenth. I am Ravalli County Attorney Barbara Drake, interviewing David Crisp. Mister Crisp is charged with one count of possession of dangerous drugs with intent to sell, one count of arson, and two counts of murder in the first degree. He is represented by counsel, Milton Kouris.” She leaned back and nodded at Kouris. “Are we ready to proceed?”

  “My understanding is that you are alleging that my client murdered one person, Laura Hooters,” Kouris said. “Where do you come up with two counts?”

  “There have been some developments,” Drake said.

  “What developments?”

  “We’ll get to that,” Drake said.

  “Could you turn that machine off for a moment?” Kouris said. Drake nodded and hit the switch on the tape recorder. Kouris and Crisp put their heads together, Kouris shielding his mouth with his hand. It reminded Arceneaux of a catcher on the mound, giving his pitcher some advice. The quiet conversation went on for more than a minute, then Kouris leaned back.

  “Assuming, hypothetically, that we are willing to deal with you on the drug charges, what do you offer my client?” Kouris asked.

  Drake waved her hand as if she were brushing a fly away. She reached over and turned the tape back on. “I don’t frankly care that much about the drug charges. If your client wants to confess to the murders, we’ll take the drugs off the table completely.” She paused. “And the arson charge, for that matter.”

  Kouris leaned back and pressed his fingertips together. “There’s that plural again. You need to tell us who Mister Crisp is supposed to have murdered.”

  “Laura Hooters, for starters,” Drake said. “

  “My client assures me that he was at home with his family on the night that poor girl was killed,” Kouris said.

  “Your client’s wife has admitted that he wasn’t at home until late that night. And his son says your client wasn’t at home to tuck him in bed.” Drake looked across the table at Crisp, who was scowling and shaking his head. “He really tried to hold out, David, but eventually he knew he had to tell the truth.” She turned back to Kouris. “Also, there was blood inside a cracked area of the baseball bat your client used to kill Laura. We got test
results back from the crime lab day before yesterday. It was her blood.” She turned to Crisp again. “You tell your boy bedtime stories and tuck him in at night, and then use his bat to beat a girl to death? That kind of stinks, don’t you think, David?”

  Crisp stared at the table and did not reply. Kouris looked at his client with a frown, then leaned back in his chair again and composed his face into a neutral mask.

  “What about this alleged second murder?” he said.

  “You client killed Corey Wallace at the Double Pine Lodge in October,” Drake said.

  “Corey Wallace?” Arceneaux said.

  “I was going to tell you, but it slipped my mind,” Rentz said. “We got results back from the blood on that seat cover, too. It belonged to Wallace.”

  “Just him?”

  “Just him.” Rentz said.

  “What about Samantha? You know damn well he killed her, too.”

  Rentz shrugged and held up a hand, turning to the window again.

  “We can document that the truck belonged to your client,” Drake was saying, “and the DNA match on the blood is beyond dispute. The truck was seen at Double Pine at the time of the murder, and we can produce a witness to testify to that as well.”

  Kouris waved toward the tape recorder and Drake turned it off. Crisp and the attorney put their heads together again.

  “Pretty flimsy stuff,” Kouris said. “You can’t put my client in that truck, even if he did own it; and we’ve already conceded that he and Corey Wallace were doing business together. That blood could have gotten there any time. Maybe Wallace was just the clumsy kind. Most important, you already have one killer, Arden Marks. So now you’re going to claim that Marks killed his wife, and then my client just happened to come along and decided to kill Wallace?” He sat back and pressed his fingers together again. “And where’s the motive? Why would my client kill the man who was making him so much money?”

  “I’m a flexible person,” Drake said. “When evidence changes, I can change my mind. I don’t know why Mister Crisp decided to kill his benefactor. Maybe he was just collateral damage. I do know that he had a pretty good motive to kill Samantha.” She glanced across at Crisp again. “While you were killing people, David, you should have taken out Harvey English, and not just his files. After all, he knows what’s in them, and what Samantha was about to do.” She tapped her fingers on the table and leaned forward. “We’re going to convict your client of the murder of Laura Hooters for certain. We quite sure we can convict him of killing Corey Wallace, and with those two, it won’t be hard to convince a jury about Samantha Marks.”