by J. T. Edson
‘Whoo! She near on busted my guts. Anyways, I put the bottle in the glove compartment and went down to the barn. Tap wasn’t there, which surprised me. After I’d shouted a couple of times, I went up to the house. It wasn’t like Tap not to be on hand when there was a collection and I knowed that he didn’t go for the car being around his place for too long. So I went up to the house and tried the door.
It opened a mite, then stuck. I got my shoulder to it and pushed. When I got in, there was old Tap, sprawled on the floor dead.’
‘How’d he been killed?’ Brad asked.
‘He—He’d been shot—Twice that I could see.’
‘Did you make sure he was dead?’ Alice wanted to know. ‘I—I didn’t need to. One of the bullets was in his head—I’ve never seen so much blood.’
‘What did you do then?’ Alvarez prompted.
‘I got the hell out of there,’ Holton answered. Driving a trapped car, I sure as hell didn’t want to get caught in no murder—And—and—’
‘Go on—’ Alice said gently.
‘I didn’t know how long he’d been dead!’ Holton gritted out. ‘The feller who washed Tap might’ve been around. I’m a runner, not a fighter, so I ran.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us about this earlier?’ Alice asked.
‘I was scared, not thinking right. Once I’d started to run at the gas station, I figured you’d reckon I was guilty and kept going. What’s going to happen to me now?’
‘We’ll hold you as a material witness,’ Alvarez told him. ‘If there’s anybody you’d like us to notify—’
Holton thought fast. As a material witness he had no need for a lawyer and asking for one might be construed as evidence of guilt. On the other hand, he dare not give the name of the combine’s local agent. So he made a decision which would allow him time to consider his next course of action.
‘There’s nobody,’ he stated.
‘We’d best have a team check out the Morgan place,’ Alvarez decided, accepting Holton’s decision.
‘I’ll take it, Ric,’ Buck offered. ‘It’s in my bailiwick anyways, and I’ve knowed ole Tap a fair number of years.’
‘Sure, Buck. Fix up with a photographer and M.E. to go with him, Alice. You take Mr. Holton up to the cells, Brad and Sam.’
Before Cuchilo could join Brad, a telephone rang and he answered it. Setting down the receiver, he turned to Joan with a resigned expression on his dark, somewhat Mongoloid face.
‘The love-birds are at it again. This time he’s chasing her ’round the garden with a carving-knife.’
Letting out a grunt of annoyance, Alvarez amended his orders. You’d best go over and tend to them, Joan, Sam.’
‘Hadn’t we, though,’ Joan agreed, disgustedly jerking her report from the typewriter and throwing it into the waste-paper basket by the desk. ‘If it’s all lovey-dovey this time when we get there, I may do some wife—and husband-beating myself.’
‘I reckon I can manage Holton, Sam,’ Brad went on. ‘Now we’ve heard his story, he won’t try to escape.’
‘Don’t lose him,’ Joan warned, heading for the doors. ‘I may not be around to catch him next time.’
‘Grand-pappy always told me a woman come under a horse, but higher than a pack-mule in usefulness,’ commented Cuchilo as he followed his partner. ‘Could be he was right.’
‘I could use a couple of extry hands, Ric,’ Buck suggested, watching Brad escort an unresisting Holton from the room. ‘There’s likely to be some running back and forwards needs doing and I don’t cotton to my regular crew getting too much big city life. Last time Amy was in, she come back wearing a mini-skirt ’n’ see-through blouse. When ole Sassfitz seed her, he licked a coon up a slippery elm and ain’t been the same since.’
Making arrangements for a S.I.B. photographer and medical examiner to visit the Morgan place, Alice could not hold down a gurgle of laughter at the description. As Woman Deputy Amy Hollgrove looked like film-star Marjorie Main in one of her more rugged roles, the idea of her dressing as Buck described might have caused his big old blue tick hound to act in such a spectacular manner. Then Alice saw Alvarez looking at her and wished that she had not drawn attention her way.
‘I haven’t a team in and don’t know when any of them’ll be back,’ Alvarez said. T>o I hear a red-haired volunteer?’
‘There’s no wonder all your watch look so fat,’ Alice sighed. ‘We do their work for them. Lordy lord. Who’d be a peace officer.’
Which comments fooled nobody, not even Alice. A peace officer was technically available for duty twenty-four hours a day. However no deputy would accept an off-watch assignment without complaining about it.
When Brad returned from delivering Holton to the cells, he showed no surprise at learning that he and Alice were to help Buck with the investigation. Riding the elevator to the ground floor, they found the specialists waiting. Sam Heilman, tall, grey-haired and wearing a leather windcheater, slacks and hunting boots, had his cameras dangling from his shoulders. Smaller, blocky Irvine Levene carried the kit he would need while searching for scientific evidence. Normally they would not have been called until the deputies had checked out Holton’s story, but Morgan’s farm was about twenty miles from Gusher City. So the S.I.B. specialists were going along to save time.
In the official vehicles’ parking lot at the rear of the building, Brad, Alice and the specialists boarded Unit SO 12, the black and white Oldsmobile Super 88 car which the deputies used as their operational vehicle. Buck climbed into his Jeep, disturbing his big, evil-looking blue tick hound as it lay sleeping in the back. After assuring itself that it was its master getting in, Sassfitz returned to its interrupted sleep.
‘We’ve got work to do, ole dawg,’ Buck warned grimly and started the Jeep moving. ‘Let’s hope that feller was lying and we don’t need the M.E.’
Although the medical examiner had been alerted, he would not go with the deputies’ party. If he should be needed, Central Control would be notified and inform him.
While Brad followed Buck’s Jeep, Alice told the specialists all she knew about the case. After going north on the State Auto Road for about ten miles, they left it down a west-bound turn-off. With Buck still in the lead, they branched away from the second class road and bumped along a narrow, winding track through thickly-wooded country. Turning a corner, the old deputy brought his Jeep to a halt before a small wooden farm house in a large clearing.
Leaving their vehicles, the peace officers studied the house and the few out-buildings. At Buck’s side, Sassfitz stood as alert and tense as a wild predatory animal hunting for its food. With scarred head raised high, the blue tick’s keen nose and ears sought for any warning scent or sound.
‘Go take a look ’round, boy!’ Buck commanded after about thirty seconds and, as the dog loped purposefully away, addressed his human companions. ‘If there’s anybody hid out, ole Sassfitz’ll find ’em.’
None of the city-dwelling officers disputed the point. Not only could the eighty-pound hound make a more thorough search than any human being, but it possessed excellent equipment to protect itself in the event of finding a hostile hidden person. Satisfied that an important part of the investigation was being competently handled, Alice and the three men waited for Buck’s next orders.
Holding a powerful flashlight brought from his Jeep, Buck directed its beam across the ground ahead of him while approaching the house. While the moon still shone brightly, he wanted a greater illumination of the area. Not that he expected to find foot-prints on the hard earth in front of the building, but there might be some other form of scientific evidence lying around. They still did not know if Holton had spoken the truth, but Buck knew better than to take chances. His diligence soon met with a reward.
Something metallic glinted in the pool of light as it pierced the shadows thrown by the edge of the porch. Reversing the direction of the beam, Buck focused it on a small object the others identified as an empty cartridge case. With a soft-spo
ken exclamation, he raised the flashlight meaning to sweep its glow across the porch. Almost above the first case, a second lay on the wooden boards. Letting out a low sigh of resigned acceptance, he turned the flashlight to the left. It showed them that the house’s front door stood open a couple of inches.
‘Start taking pictures, Sam,’ Buck ordered. Despite his frequent derogatory comments about the ‘scientifical wonders’, he never failed to make use of the S.I.B.’s experts during an investigation. ‘I’d like to take a closer look at one of them cases as soon as I can, Irvine. Let me whistle up ole Sassfitz, Brad, then you ’n’ me’ll take a look inside the house.’
When the blue tick returned, Buck and Brad crossed the porch stepping carefully to avoid disturbing the cartridge case on it. The old deputy pushed the door gently until it touched something inside the building. Going through the enlarged opening, Sassfitz halted and let out a low bark. Face set and grim, Buck followed the dog and Brad squeezed in after him. Easing the hound aside, Buck pointed his flashlight at the floor. Bare-footed, clad in jeans and a sleeveless undershirt, the body of an elderly man sprawled face upwards just inside the room. He had been dead for some time. Congealed blood spread from beneath the head and upper torso. Too much, Brad considered, when taken with the small size of the hole in the left side of the chest or the one between the staring eyes.
‘Is it Tap Morgan?’ Brad asked quietly.
‘Yeah,’ Buck confirmed in a flat, neutral voice.
Swinging the flashlight’s beam around the small, neat room, the old deputy examined it with his eyes. He had sat at the table in the center many times, talking with the dead man at his feet and taking a glass of whiskey on which no tax would ever be paid.
‘Must have just been finishing breakfast,’ Brad said. ‘Holton wouldn’t have moved the body much when—I’m sorry, Buck. I forgot that he was your amigo'
‘That’s all right, boy,’ Buck replied. ‘We have to figure these things no matter who it is. It goes with wearing the badge. Like you said, Tap was just finishing breakfast, way the table looks. He must’ve been shot when he opened the door. Thing being, who shot him?’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Go tell Alice to call for the M.E. I’ll take a look around in here while Sam starts photographing.’
Leaving the house, Brad nodded to Heilman. The photographer had finished taking his outside shots and entered the room. Brad turned to face the door, looking over his right shoulder to where Levene was marking the position of the empty case on the porch. Giving Buck’s orders to Alice, Brad set his memory working on the things he had read about the way different automatic pistols ejected their spent cartridges.
Alice had spent her time examining the open ground before the house for traces or objects which might help the investigation. On Brad’s return, she went to Unit SO 12 and picked up the transmission microphone of the radio. Contacting Central Control, she asked for the medical examiner and an ambulance to be dispatched to Morgan’s farm.
Taking a thin metal rod from his open kit box, Levene inserted its end into the cartridge case on the porch. Brad joined him, using his flashlight to let them see the case more clearly.
‘7.65 millimeter,’ Levene read from the printing on the base of the cartridge. ‘That’s a caliber you don’t often see.’
‘Not by that name, anyway,’ Brad agreed. ‘We call it .30 Luger. I’ll bet the bullets were made in Europe.’
Being something of an authority on firearms, Brad had recognized the cases as being the kind fired from an automatic pistol. From the earliest stages of their development, it had been found that automatics could not function correctly with revolver ammunition. The process of feeding the rounds from the magazine’s lips into the chamber precluded the use of a protruding rim as an aid to extraction of the discharged case. [xi] Instead, rounds for automatic pistols were made with a groove at the base of the case, into which the extractor’s jaws could close and take hold.
Brad had been aware from the start of which general type of firearm had left the cases before the house. Going by their size, he had guessed that they did not come from one of the smaller calibers—.22 Long Rifle up to .25—and were less than .45. That still left a wide range of calibers, some of which were handled by popular automatics. On closer examination, he had learned the answer. Knowing it merely served to increase the puzzle.
‘What is it, Brad?’ Alice asked, for she knew her partner’s moods very well.
‘The .30 Luger’s not a powerful load,’ the big blond answered, handing the flashlight back to Levene. ‘Yet there was the hell’s amount of blood from the exit holes. Too much, unless—’
‘Yes?’ Alice prompted.
‘I’ll tell you better when we get a closer look at him,’ Brad decided, conscious of the S.I.B. man’s eyes on him.
Due to the manner of his enrolment in the Sheriff’s Office, Brad tended to watch his words when in the presence of older, longer-serving officers. Despite his general acceptance and proven ability, there were members of the G.C.P.D. who resented his appointment as a deputy sheriff. So he always avoided making guesses which sounded sensational and might be wrong.
Buck came from the house, halting at the edge of the porch with Sassfitz by his side. After hearing Levene’s report on the cartridge cases, he turned his eyes to Brad.
‘What do you reckon?’
‘From what I can remember reading, a Luger throws its empties to the right at around one hundred and sixty degrees from the line of fire and about five foot away,’ Brad replied slowly.
‘Which means the killer stood up close to the door,’ Alice went on, determined that her partner would not commit himself alone. ‘And that Tap probably knew him, or was expecting him to call.’
‘Tap wasn’t a mean cuss,’ Buck objected. ‘He’d open up to anybody who knocked. Way he’s lying, I’ll go along with you about where the killer stood.’
‘What do you want us to do now, Buck?’ Alice inquired. ‘Ain’t nothing much we can do until the M.E.’s come and done his work,’ the old deputy replied. ‘You ’n’ Brad might as well head back to town. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Alice said, for she saw the wisdom of the suggestion.
There was nothing to be done until the medical examiner had arrived and completed his preliminary investigation. Aided by the two S.I.B. experts, Buck did not need Alice and Brad. They had other work at the Sheriff’s Office, although the murder would take priority over it. If Buck needed their assistance, he knew how to contact them. So Alice and Brad climbed aboard Unit SO 12, turned it and drove back to Gusher City.
‘What did you think about the blood and bullets, Brad?’ Alice asked as the big blond guided the Oldsmobile along the State Auto Road.
‘The .30 Luger’s high velocity, but it’s not a powerful round,’ he explained. ‘Up that close, it would most likely go through a man Tap Morgan’s build. Like all automatics, it fires a jacketed bullet. So the exit-holes wouldn’t be big—unless the killer used soft-points.’
Alice knew what Brad meant. While revolver bullets could be cast of all lead, such loads had been found impractical for use with automatics; the mechanism driving the round from the magazine into the chamber distorted the bullet’s shape. Jacketing the bullet, covering the lead core with a hard cupro-nickel or gilding-metal envelope, had been devised to prevent this. The system was not without its disadvantages. While the envelope resisted the impacts of loading, it prevented the bullet from expanding on striking the target. Hand-gun hunters soon learned that a jacketed bullet would pass through the game with little damage to tissue or shock power. Soft-point bullets supplied the answer. Instead of coating the whole core, its tip was allowed to protrude beyond the jacket. The envelope still withstood the buffeting of the mechanism, but the exposed tip caused it to split and mushroom in the required manner. With a high-velocity load like the .30 Luger, such mushrooming opened a funnel-like passage beyond al
l comparison with the size of the bullet.
If Brad’s conclusions proved correct, they would have a piece of evidence to use in the hunt for the killer. Not much on its, own, but forming part of the picture that they would assemble piece by piece and which, they hoped, might in the end lead to the murderer’s arrest.
While the Oldsmobile cruised along the Road’s fast-lane, they discussed the possible motives for the crime. Revenge or a feud were possibilities, jealousy less likely. There had been nothing in the living-room to suggest robbery, nor that a crank or a sadist had been responsible for the old farmer’s death. Self-defense could almost certainly be ruled out. Financial or other gain might have been the cause of Morgan’s murder, so could his participation in a civil suit at court. A closer examination of the motives could wait until morning, but there were certain routine inquiries to be made.
‘We may as well give R. and I. something to do,’ Alice remarked, taking the transmission microphone from its hook. ‘Unit SO 12 to Cen-Con.’
‘Cen-Con by,’ came the answer from the radio.
‘Request make on Tapley Morgan, farmer, address Route 115, Euclid. He’s a possible moonshiner.’
‘Is this priority?’ demanded the voice from Central Control.
‘It’s a murder inquiry,’ Alice replied.
‘Will relay request to R. & I.,’ the voice promised. ‘Over and out.’
‘You’ve got a mean streak in you, boss-lady,’ Brad drawled as Alice returned the microphone. ‘Those poor joes in R. and I. won’t get any sleep tonight.’
‘Calling them now will give us an early start in the morning,’ Alice answered, knowing that the personnel of the Records and Information Bureau were on a 24-hours watch.
Alice’s words proved to be prophetic. At half past six the following morning, the telephone on her bed-side table began to buzz insistently. Stirring sleepily, she scooped up the receiver without sitting up.