Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  “Yeah.” Buford tapped a teaspoon on his coffee cup. “His parents died about ten years ago.”

  The tribal investigator wondered how much this man would tell him. “They die at the same time?”

  “Yeah.” Buford grimaced. “House fire.”

  “Somebody smoking in bed?”

  He avoided the tribal investigator’s intense gaze. “From what I heard, the investigation was inconclusive.” He started to speak, rephrased his words. “The senator believes the fire was accidental.”

  Charlie Moon watched the man’s eyes. “Does the senator believe his wife’s death was accidental?”

  Buford took a sip of bitter coffee. “Why do you ask?”

  “I hear she fell down the stairs. Broke her neck.” Not long after the nephew showed up at the BoxCar.

  There was a prickly silence before the ranch manager responded. “House fires. Women falling down stairs. That kind of subject don’t help my digestion. Let’s talk about something more pleasant.”

  “I’m all for that,” Moon said. “Tell me about Miss James.”

  The ranch manager closed his eyes to call up the woman’s image. “That little gal—now she’s a sweet Georgia peach. Treats everybody nice, minds her own business. And she takes good care of the senator.”

  Moon looked at the ceiling. Then, with studied casualness: “What’s Miss James’s first name?”

  “Miss.” Buford laughed at Moon’s expression. “And from what I’ve been able to find out, she don’t much care for us rough-around-the-edges cowboy types.”

  The Ute tried hard to grin, but couldn’t do it. “You had a go at her, then?”

  “Sure, I did.” Buford snickered like a teenager. “Hell, I may look old and worn-out, but I ain’t dead yet.”

  Charlie Moon waited for more.

  The spurned man sighed. “Last year, I asked her if she’d like to go to the Roundup Rodeo with my honorable self. Her refusal was what cultured folks call polite. But Mrs. Buford’s little boy knows when he’s been told to get lost.” He drained the cup. “Anybody else you want the lowdown on?”

  “How about the manager of this high-tone outfit?”

  “That’s a fancy title. Officially, I’m not even on the senator’s payroll. In exchange for what few services I provide, I get the use of this old ranch house. And all the groceries and supplies I need.”

  “But no actual pay?”

  Buford shook his head. “Not a greenback dollar. But I got a disability pension from the government.”

  Moon thought the sturdy man did not look disabled.

  The ranch manger read his thoughts. “I got a back injury from when I was in the Marines. And no, I didn’t get wounded in action. I slipped on some sawdust and fell off a loading dock in East St. Louis. Got an honorable discharge and a monthly check for the rest of my life. It ain’t much, but a man with room and board don’t need a lot.”

  “So you give up life as a grunt to run the ranch for Patch Davidson.”

  “Not right away. I had another job in between.”

  “Ranching?”

  “Nope. I was at Defense Intelligence Agency for almost ten years.”

  “DIA, huh? Must’ve been interesting work.”

  Buford smiled at the probe. “Oh yeah, it was great fun. Spent most of my time driving tight-assed generals around D.C.”

  “And you prefer the BoxCar to the nation’s capital.”

  “You said it right.”

  “You think a lot of the senator, don’t you?”

  Buford picked his words with care. “Patch Davidson is the most important person in my life. If it wasn’t for him…” He clamped his jaw shut.

  Moon let that dog lie.

  A clock on the wall struck ten times.

  “Thanks for the meal.” The Ute got to his feet. “It’s about time for me to hit the road.”

  “I’ve enjoyed your company, Charlie.” The BoxCar manager picked up a bowie knife from the bread platter, turned the glistening blade on a hard, callused palm. His voice was crisp as a September breeze at the crack of dawn. “Before you go, there’s something you need to know. Somebody harms one gray hair on that old man’s head, I will rip him from gills to asshole and then some. When I get done, there won’t be enough left of the bastard for a peckerwood’s breakfast.”

  Charlie Moon looked deep into the flint-hard eyes, and knew this was no idle boast. Henry Buford would make a fine friend. But God help his enemy.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A JOB OF WORK

  THE SUN WAS AN HOUR HIGH WHEN DOLLY BUSHMAN HEARD THE Ford F-150 pickup rumbling along the graveled ranch lane. The boss usually stopped on his way out, and Charlie was always game for some coffee. The plump, middle-aged woman went to the screened door, wiped her hands on a red cotton apron. She watched Charlie Moon’s long legs take the three porch steps in a single stride. He looked to be in good spirits.

  “Come inta house and sit yourself down.” The ranch foreman’s wife gestured to indicate a sturdy chair at the kitchen table.

  He hung the everyday black Stetson on a battered coatrack, seated himself. “Where’s Pete?”

  “My old man is off with some of the hands”—She pointed—“working on one of them irrigation ditches over by the west alfalfa.”

  “Hay crop’s looking pretty good this year.”

  “That’s what I hear.” This slender man was looking thinner than usual. She gave him a worried look. “You want me to whip you up some breakfast? I could fix some eggs and ham.”

  “I should say no. But I’d hate to hurt your feelings.”

  “I got a half pan of biscuits I made fresh this morning. They’re still warm.”

  “Well, if you’d hold a gun to my head, I’d eat one or two.”

  She pulled a cookie sheet out of the oven, shoved it in front of him. “Want some butter?”

  “If it’ll make you feel better.”

  She unwrapped a stick of Grandma’s Pride, put it on a saucer.

  Moon opened a biscuit with a spoon.

  The expert cook sliced off a half-inch slab of ham, plopped it into one of her well-seasoned Tennessee Forge cast-iron fry pans. She cracked four eggs for the black skillet’s twin. There was a delicious sizzling. “I expect Pete will be back in a hour or so.”

  “Can’t stay that long.” He took a wistful look out the window. “I need to get into Granite Creek while the sun’s still low.”

  Dolly Bushman snapped a faded dish towel, wiped at a plate from her husband’s breakfast. “What’s the big hurry?”

  “Got an assignment from the tribal chairman.” He gestured with a biscuit. “Today, I am going to investigate the killing of Billy Smoke. By this time next week, I expect to come to a thoughtful conclusion.”

  She flipped the ham slab over. More sizzling and popping. “All in seven days?”

  “That’s all the time I can spare from things I need to be doing.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like managing this ranch.” Like fishing.

  She hunched her shoulders. “Hmmph.”

  “Dolly, I heard that hmmph.”

  “Well, I’m glad your ears are still working.”

  “What did this particular Hmmph mean?”

  She told him. “A job worth doing is worth doing well.”

  “Now that’s a pretty proverb. Here’s her twin sister. Don’t spend seven months doing a job than can be finished in seven days—with time out to rest on Sunday.”

  Her brow pinched into a suspicious frown. “I never heard that one.”

  “It’s in the book. Look it up.”

  “Charlie Moon, I never know when you’re teasing me.” She slapped his back with the dish towel.

  He helped himself to another biscuit. “Ma’am, d’you have any jam?”

  “I got strawberry preserves. And blackberry. And some orange marmalade.”

  “That’ll do just fine.”

  THE MEDICAL EXAMINER

  CHARLIE MOON was
about to knock on the hundred-year-old oak door when it was jerked open by an elfin, white-haired man who appeared to be the same age as the varnished wood. “Well, what’n hell do you want?”

  The tribal investigator removed his black hat. “Sir, I am selling magazine subscriptions to work my way through medical school—and you’re my last customer today. If you’ll purchase just three cut-rate subscriptions to Popular Quack Medicine, I’ll receive this enormous cash prize, become a rich and famous heart surgeon, and help the living stay that way. If you don’t take pity on me, I may have to become a pathologist.”

  “Don’t get fresh with me, Charlie Moon.” The medical examiner turned away with a groan. “Come inside and let me show you something dreadful.”

  “No, thank you.” The Ute had seen too many dreadful things in the ME’s basement laboratory.

  “Oh, don’t be such a sissy—it’s not a cadaver.”

  Thus reassured, Moon followed the plump, round-shouldered man down the dark hallway past a parlor on the left, a spacious office on the right. The paneled hall terminated in a high-ceilinged kitchen that had been remodeled in 1898. There was a sizable puddle of water on the tile floor. It was trying to get larger, and succeeding. “So that’s why you’re in such a nasty mood.”

  “I am an old man who suffers from rheumatism, gout, and general distemper—so nasty is not a mood with me, it is a permanent condition.” Dr. Walter Simpson wagged a finger in his guest’s face. “And don’t tell me to call in a plumber. I telephoned the scoundrel almost two hours ago, and as you can plainly see, he ain’t showed up yet.”

  Moon put his hat on a heavy pine table, poked head and shoulders under the sink. Water sprayed into his face. He turned off the cold water supply valve; the spray slowed to a drip. “You got a good-sized adjustable wrench?”

  “Just a minute.” There was the sound of wet slippers pattering away. Presently, the physician returned with a plastic toolbox. He shoved it under the sink. “Have a look in there.”

  Moon unclipped the lid. All the tools looked new and unused. There was no adjustable wrench, but he found a pair of channel-lock pliers, tightened a brass nut on the fitting. Thankfully, it did not break. He got to his feet with a grunt.

  Dr. Simpson was swiping at the floor with a soggy mop. “Did you really fix it?”

  “For now. But you better get that plumber to replace some of these antique pipes and fittings.”

  The ME’s cherubic face reflected his inner bliss. “Can I fix you a cup of coffee?”

  “At least.”

  “I have some highly fattening pastries. Apple fritters. Cinnamon rolls.”

  “Bring ’em on, doc.”

  Nine minutes later the plumber knocked on the door. After a three-minute stay, the skilled craftsman departed.

  Dr. Simpson’s smile was also gone. He waved an invoice in Moon’s face, as if the Ute was to blame for this outrage. “This is simply scandalous. Sixty-eight dollars and some odd cents for making a call—and he didn’t do a damned thing.” He glared at his guest. “I shouldn’t have let you monkey around with my plumbing. I paid a professional to do the job and got an amateur fix.”

  Moon took the last bite of a sugar-crusted apple fritter. “Life is tough.”

  “Spare me the pithy philosophical observations. Why are you here?”

  “You remember examining Billy Smoke’s body?”

  “I am going to take that as a rhetorical question. Otherwise, I would be forced to respond with some such acid remark as: No, I have forgotten all about the most notorious and brutal murder to occur within Granite Creek city limits for almost a decade.” About nine years ago, there had been that RMP graduate student. Poor, poor girl. But that didn’t bear thinking about.

  Moon wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “Tell me about Billy’s corpse.”

  Simpson shifted to his professional persona. “There was no mystery about the cause of death. Senator Davidson’s chauffeur was struck once on the temple, twice on the forehead. Once on the bridge of his nose. Any of which would have led to his demise, but the trauma inflicted on the temple resulted in virtually instantaneous death.” Walter Simpson took a sip of mint tea from a delicate porcelain cup. “The instrument of murder was more or less cylindrical. Diameter about an inch and a half. And heavy.” He paused, glancing sideways at his visitor. “Like a tire iron. Or an old-fashioned lead pipe.”

  The tribal investigator wondered whether the old man had forgotten that the murder weapon had been found at the scene. “Or maybe a section of rebar.”

  The medical examiner frowned over his teacup. “Well of course I know that a piece of iron reinforcement bar was used in the crime. Blood from Mr. Smoke’s head and the senator’s legs was recovered from the infernal thing.” The old man’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But I have pipes on my mind right now.”

  Moon did not bite.

  Simpson leaned forward. “And speaking of pipes, would you like to hear my well-informed view on a matter of considerable economic and social importance?”

  “No, I would not. In fact, I’d rather have a red-hot scorpion crawl into my ear and hatch out three dozen youngsters. But I know that won’t stop you.”

  “Very well, since you encourage me. I contend that plumbers should be regulated. More particularly, I am in favor of firm price caps. Say…twenty dollars an hour. No minimum price for house calls. If they do not fix the problem, they should not be paid one brass shekel.”

  “Shekels were generally silver. Or gold.”

  “Don’t show off, it is unbecoming in one of limited erudition.”

  “You’re right. I don’t even know the meaning of the word.” Moon reached for a cinnamon roll. “How about pill pushers—you in favor of a price cap for them?”

  A merry twinkle danced in Dr. Simpson’s bright blue eyes. “Physicians, men and women of the cloth, teachers in public schools—and let us not forget librarians—should get a special rate from the local pipe-twisters. Say…wholesale price on parts and ten dollars an hour for labor.”

  “I think you missed the point, doc. Issue I raised was whether there should be a cap on services provided by an erudite sawbones like yourself.”

  “No, you did not.”

  “I did not?”

  “Let me clarify. You were clearly suggesting that those involved in vital services to humankind—such as myself—should receive reduced rates from otherwise exploitative plumbers. And with due humility, I am obliged to agree with your point.”

  “Guess I was confused about what I was thinking. Thanks for setting me straight.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I won’t. So what sort of a discount should an ex-policeman turned rancher get on his plumbing bills?”

  “The question is moot. As you have already demonstrated whilst toiling under my sink, such rough-and-ready folk can manage their own repairs.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE SURGEON

  MOON DUCKED UNDER A PROMINENT SIGN POSTED TO WARN POTENTIAL trespassers that the inner chamber was for EMERGENCY ROOM STAFF ONLY. There was a single person in the room, which housed a motley collection of vending machines and extraordinarily ugly furniture.

  The young surgeon was hunched forward in a plastic chair, her elbows on a Formica-clad table. The blue eyes were bloodshot, her somewhat plump figure was concealed in bulky cotton greens, most of her wispy brown hair was tucked under a white plastic cap. Having popped a couple of No-Doz tablets, the physician was feeding herself from a bag of Super Size Cheez Kurls.

  “Excuse me.” Moon removed his hat. “You are Dr. Eden?”

  She pointed a yellow-stained finger at the nameplate on her blouse. “That’s what it says. What’s your handle, hombre?”

  He told her.

  The ER supervisor looked him up and down. Nice specimen. “So what’s on your mind, Charlie Moon?”

  “Business.” He removed the leather folder from a shirt pocket, flashed his gold-plated Southern Ute badge.


  She raised a hand in front of her eyes. “Please—you’re blinding me.”

  He smiled, put the ID away. “Mind if I ask you a coupla questions?”

  “Not if I can ask you a couple first.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “You’re a cop. Why aren’t you totin’ a gun?”

  “I only tote when there’s a need to tote.”

  “So from time to time, you have a need to shoot human beings?”

  He lost the smile.

  Happy to have scored a point, the ER surgeon upped the ante. “Tell me, Mr. Moon—how many people have you killed?”

  A dozen gray faces flashed across the Ute’s consciousness.

  “Oh, come on now, don’t be modest. How many unfortunates have you sent to the grave?”

  He leaned over the table, locked gazes with the woman. “Let’s make a deal.”

  “Name it, cowboy.”

  “I’ll tell you my number. But first, you tell me yours.”

  The surgeon’s pale face burned crimson. “That’s not a fair comparison—I’m in the business of saving lives.”

  “So’m I.” The tribal investigator put on his hat, turned on his heel.

  She stood up. “Wait.”

  He stopped, looked over his shoulder.

  “Guess I’ve had to patch up too many shooting victims.”

  “Know what you mean. I’ve patched up a couple myself.”

  “And not that it’s an excuse for my rude behavior, but I haven’t had any sleep for almost thirty hours. I was way out of line. I apologize.”

  “Accepted.”

  “So tell me, how can I help you?”

  “When Senator Davidson was brought to the emergency room last December, I understand you were the physician on duty.”

  “You understand rightly, sir.”

  “I’m sorry to ask you to plow the same ground all over again—I know you’ve already been interviewed by the local police. And the FBI.”

  “Don’t forget the state police. And the BIA coppers.” The ER surgeon stuffed a Cheez Kurl into her mouth. “Everything I told ’em is in the official records.”