by Bud Crawford
"I'm coming. Two shakes of a rat's ass." Geoff stood and shook his head. "There's something we're not seeing, something right in front of us."
"Well," Ellen said, "right in front of you is me."
chapter thirtieth — saturday
Sprague said, "Don't fret folks. I didn't want us here to muck around ahead of Deputy Ramsey, but to make sure he didn't muck around ahead of us. It's a little abstract, I realize, but you want to rule out what you can rule out. And we still got coffee, we still got doughnuts." They had been sitting in the parking lot for half an hour. The cabin that had been James' was visible through the trees at the end of a short curved path, maybe fifty feet away. His Jeep was parked ten feet in front of them. Sprague had told Ramsey they'd be there at seven-thirty. They'd arrived at seven and had not yet gotten out of the car.
On the dot of seven-thirty, a Rutherford County Sheriff's Department cruiser pulled alongside. Ramsey was alone. He opened his door, and stood by the Asheville Police car. He reached out and placed his palm on the center of the hood. "Twenty minutes?" he asked, "thirty?" He stepped back and spread his hands wide. "Welcome to the county. Can I show you the scene?"
"Morning, Ramsey. I'm Sprague, this is Patrolman Jenny Apple, with the pony tail, she'll make the notes. Bob Stuart, with the camera, will shoot it. And Cindy Feather is for the forensics. Actually, they've cross-trained, they're all hot shots. I'm the only non-scientist. Just smart enough, using the pictures you sent me yesterday, to park over here, away from what was left of your tire marks. Start there?"
"Hey, everybody, good to meet y'all. Treating it like murder, huh?" Ramsey walked on the pine needles and leaves that lined the parking area. "Serious downpour yesterday, hours before I got here. I thought I could make out maybe five tracks, but some were on top, and some were repeats. Two, maybe three distinct. Nothing better out in the road, where we both just drove over, because there was other traffic and a harder bed."
He led them around the front of the Jeep. "You see the tire and the track right under the Jeep toy. Over there, I think is the same mark. Between them there's two, directly on top of each other, not much to read."
Sprague said, "You got that picture, Apple?" She handed him a photo of a tire. "We know this one was here, the girlfriend. We took it last night. If we can see a trace of your other one, it might be a tire track of interest."
"Take it away, CSI. All this country boy sees is washed out ghost marks." Ramsey stepped out of the way, and Bob shot from several sides, Cindy holding lights at various angles to bring up shadows and texture. Walking carefully to one side they worked across the lot.
"Want a mold, boss?" Cindy asked Sprague.
"If you see anything worth casting," Sprague said.
"Just right here, where they stood. There's a couple boots as well."
"Sure, get 'em. Then lay on some covers. We'll wait for you at the cabin." At her alarmed look he said, "Okay, we'll just stand here. Be as quick as you can."
Cindy had already mixed her compound and begun pouring. "I'll drape these for now and we can pull them up on the way out."
Ramsey said, "Well, there's the cabin, do we walk on the path or through the trees?"
"Bob and Cindy, up the path. Shoot and pour as you go. Pointy boots are probably Richter, pumps probably Spence, so the big deal would be anything else. Ramsey, Apple and me through the blackberries, I'm first." Sprague carefully pressed the prickly vines flat with his boot. When they got to the cabin, they stopped and waited. Must be fifty years old, almost become a natural feature. Moss and a little grass grew on the roof shingles. The frame had settled into the ground, three right-leaning steps led up to the left-leaning porch
"Nothing there boss. Gravel mostly, a few blurred prints. No usable tread, not even size or weight." Cindy paused at the bottom of the porch steps. There was yellow tape from post to post.
"Yeah, you and Bob first, invite us in. Can't take all day with this. We've got the cliff top and bottom to look at, not to mention other business back in town on this case, besides the rest of the city's crimes. This is still a marginal thing, somewhere between 'oops!' and double murder." He turned to the deputy. "What's your read, off the record?"
Ramsey looked at Apple. Sprague nodded to her and she closed her notebook. "Well, it could have been an accident, but if you know what I mean, it's too accidental. Kind of wiped down. You'd expect more peripheral confusing junk; it's like it's been cleaned."
chapter thirty-first
Dwight opened his eyes. A round shiny circle jerked from side to side, a tangle of branches above. Small birds knocked it about, goldfinches mostly, startlingly bright in their fresh spring yellow. They were showering his face with thistle seed shells. Nothing about this is right, he thought. Why am I lying on the ground? Why can't I get up? He lifted his right arm, brushed the seeds from his face. His left arm did not respond, nor could he raise his head. He could flex both feet and lift his knees a little. There was something lumpy under his back, on the left, it hurt. Broken neck, he wondered, broken back, or just stunned? Like the cardinal that bumped the window yesterday, limp on its side for a full minute then fluttered up into flight. Did I fly into a window? No I was standing on the balcony, about where that junco is, then I woke up here. A second later? An hour later? His head lifted a little, there was coffee spilled on his shirt, his chest burned under the stain.
He rolled a little right to free his left arm, found his empty mug clutched in locked fingers. That was the lump. He lifted his knees towards his chest, let them fall together to the right, their momentum twisting him onto his right side. His left arm stung with pins and needles as it flopped over, his fingers released, and the mug fell on the grass. Using his right arm mostly, he pushed to his knees, and stopped. He was too woozy to stand, too nauseous for another sudden move. He felt a sour rising in the back of his throat and knew it would be a mistake to throw up with nothing in his stomach. He lifted his head and saw the little girl from the house next door looking solemnly at him from the sidewalk
"I fell," he told her. "Could you tell somebody to come?"
She climbed through a gap in the hedge, across the front lawn, up onto the porch. She rang the bell and waited. The giant man came to the door, and said hello. She pointed left along the porch. Yes, he said to her, that way? He walked to the corner of the porch, suddenly vaulted over the railing. Dwight!, he said. What happened? Are you all right? The girl walked back to the sidewalk, back to her bike, and watched the two men. The giant picked up the other man cradled against his chest. He carried him up the porch steps, opened the door and went inside. She climbed on her bike and pedaled back to her driveway.
~
"You know you shouldn't have moved him?" Honoria had taken charge. "If he had broken or ruptured something, you could have made it worse." Alistair had set Dwight on the large sofa in the parlor, on his back. Honoria watched Dwight's eyes follow her finger side to side, up and down. The pulse in his neck was quick but steady. Left shoulder probably dislocated, full finger motion, but much pain pushing against her. Right arm okay, probably bruises. She probed his chest and abdomen, gently at first, then more forcefully. Then she went to his feet, both of them moved and pushed back, rotations and transverse, left side the more tender. She said to Dwight, "Tell me your name."
"I'm still Dwight, it's Saturday. John Kerry is still not president. I think I'm actually okay, except my whole left side hurts, my shoulder the most." He smiled up at her. "Thanks for the check over. Don't be too hard on Alistair, ma'am, he was following battlefield rules, first get the man away from enemy fire. Finches shooting thistle seeds, in this instance. I was already on hands and knees. Besides, I'd much rather be on the couch than the wet bird-shitty grass."
Jerry came down the stairs into the parlor. "What's with you? You were drinking coffee on the balcony, how did you get past me? Why the lay down?"
"So it wasn't you pushed me?" Dwight asked.
"Did you fall off, you clumsy jerk?
Are you okay? What happened?" Kneeling beside the sofa he took Dwight's right hand, pressed it against his cheek.
"I'm fine, just sore. Don't grab my other hand like that, though, my shoulder's pretty tender. I don't know what happened. I was inhaling coffee, then I was looking up at a bird feeder. I guess I slipped or over-balanced. I don't have a clue."
Geoff and Ellen had followed Honoria into the parlor. Most of the other guests were still upstairs. Alistair had fallen back into the sofa on the far side of the room, his arms hung limp at his sides, the air drained out of him.
Dwight said, "Help me up, Jer, thanks, Geoff." Jerry on one side and Geoff on the other, they twisted Dwight's torso, lowered his feet and got him sitting. "Ouch. But thanks."
Honoria stepped before him, held the back of her hand against his cheek. "There's only one possible official recommendation, that's an ambulance to the ER for x-rays and a real exam." She held up her hand as Dwight started to speak. "I'll give you an unofficial alternative. If you think you can stand and shuffle out the back door into Geoffrey's car," she looked at Geoff and he nodded, yes, "we can get you there quicker and with less fuss."
"Do I get a little help standing up and walking?" Dwight asked.
"Let me get this around your neck first." She had knotted two napkins together and placed them under his arm. Lifting gently upwards, she tied the ends behind his neck. "This really isn't a good idea if there's a serious injury." She motioned for Jerry and Geoff to help him up.
"But you already know there isn't something serious." He smiled at her and grimaced as he pushed onto his feet.
"I don't think there is, but I do not know so. As you are perfectly well aware. Jerry, go upstairs and get anything he'll need if they want to keep him for a day or two. Quickly, go. Good girl, Ellen." Ellen held the porch door open for Dwight. His right arm was draped over Geoff's shoulders, Geoff's arm around his waist.
Ellen walked past them and opened the sliding door of the van. "The back seat's easier in and out, I can help from the other side," she climbed in and turned back to help Geoff lift Dwight into the seat. "You coming with us, Honoria?"
"No, you need Jerry in the other seat. I'll call ahead, tell them you're coming. You know the Mission Hospital ER entrance?
Ellen said, "A mile down Biltmore Avenue, on the right?"
"Yes, you'll see signs. Good, here's Jerry. Do you have an insurance card or a sack of gold?"
"Yeah, it's all right here. I got his wallet, change of clothes, prescriptions, and the power of attorney so I can tell 'em it's okay to put him down if he causes trouble. Thank you, Honoria, you're a dear, and a pro."
"Drive gently, Geoff, but don't waste time, he's going a little towards shock, I think. I'll go make my call." She walked back to the house.
"Honoria," Ellen called after her, "keep your eyes open. Watch for wooden knuckles. Tell Alistair it's okay. Look after Stef."
Honoria raised her arm in acknowledgement, but did not stop or turn around. Jerry closed the door on Dwight, and climbed into the front passenger seat, Geoff started the engine, and backed the van out of the driveway.
chapter thirty-second
The cabin kitchen was minimally equipped with basic rental cookware, pretty clean. Not much food, but nothing old or rotten. The bathroom was a toilet, sink, shower-stall. A nylon toiletry case hung open from a hook revealing the usual stuff, plus a fairly full makeup kit, street not theatrical. There were lots of unusual objects here and there in the bedroom and living room, neatly stowed and carefully labeled in zip-lock bags or boxes. A dozen little leather-bound notebooks were filled with writing in a small precise script. A table at the far end of the living room, beside the fireplace, was set up as a workspace. A laptop computer was open but not on. Twenty or so reference books filled the one shelf, aimed at collectors, coins, guns, stamps. Several magazines, a few general interest, the rest specialized subscriptions, all to James Richter in Charlotte. There was a portable file box, fifty or so hanging folders, half in use, holding mostly, at first glance, bills and receipts.
The space looked to be in use, recently tidied, but not disturbed. All the obvious prints were unofficially ID'd by Cindy as either Spence or Richter. The Spence prints were everywhere, she'd been more inquisitive than she had admitted. The bedroom closet was filled completely with clothes, grouped into half-a-dozen outfits, hats on the shelf above, shoes on the floor below. The dresser held socks, shirts, underwear. A five piece set of airport-style luggage was stacked in the corner. Everything in the cabin, besides the rented furniture and kitchen ware would have fit into the Jeep. They inventoried cabinets and refrigerators, packed up all papers and the laptop. They boxed all personal effects, wallet, penknife, cell, keys. The Jeep had little in it beyond registration and an insurance card. A few partial non-Richter prints. Nothing pointed towards foul play, nor away from it. Maybe the papers or the computer would give them something.
They locked and resealed the house, and took a roundabout path to the clearing at the cliff edge. Yesterday's rain had washed the ground clear. The edge was rock, and showed no scrapes. The ground in front showed no prints. The grade dropped five inches in the last four feet before the rounded edge of the rock. Sprague tossed a distress orange bean bag over the edge. Bob shot a picture of Cindy's mirror on a stick, showing an image of where the bag had landed. Ramsey took the camera and stepped to the edge, leaned his upper body forward, his hips back, vibram soles braced on the sloping granite, and shot down directly He stepped back and returned the camera. "Folks grown up here, bad balance mostly weeded out of the genes."
"We could have roped you, Dan'l Boone," Sprague said.
"And I'd 've asked for it, if warranted. I have skills, not a death wish. Ready to see the bottom? Recover your haki-sack?" Ramsey led them back to the cabin through the brush trail they had tramped down before.
"Quick once over, along the direct path, Cindy, Bob. Might be one good print along that way, check the edges, we'll be at the cruiser. Apple, come with us, in case one of us says something worth writing down." Sprague picked up the plastic evidence tub at the cabin and led Ramsey and Apple back to the parking area. Walking this direction they noticed the two other cabins that shared the parking area, one below and one above Richter's, both closer to the road. Sprague set the tub down by the cruiser and they walked to the other cabins. Both were locked, and empty, as the leasing agent had told them, April was not his busy season, except right at Easter.
Back at the cruiser, Sprague put the tub in the trunk. Apple added the handful of evidence bags she had been carrying. Cindy returned to the car for resin, said they maybe had something, a foot print, back in a minute.
Sprague said, "You okay with us taking the evidence out of your county, Ramsey?"
"You'll tell me what you find. I would probably try to stall SBI on principle, but you're a neighbor. Besides, this maybe case here might connect to that other maybe case you might have going." Ramsey shook his head. "No, it's yours for now, you have better resources. But I do count on you sharing."
Sprague nodded. "Absolutely. You know, I think my garage looks more like a crime scene than this place. Your basic cabin in the woods, moss on the roof, windows not washed since the glass was new. Like a thousand others around here. Interesting outfits in the closet, but we know deceased was a dresser. Some pretty odd bits and pieces, in their little bags, but we know deceased was a collector." Sprague lit his morning cigarette. He'd been holding at two a day for a year now. Most of the benefits of quitting, he figured, without losing the taste of the steadying smoke; a much improved taste in fact, for the cigarettes and for everything else.
"Yeah. Open and shut." Ramsey stepped away from the exhaled smoke. "Early morning stroll, out to the edge for the panorama, slips on the dew. Nothing here spoils the story. Nothing looks messed with."
"We don't find something, that's where it stays. Sorry about the smoke." Sprague took another deep pull, held it a second, and tilted his head to exhale upwards. "
Notify the next of kin and we're finished. He had a sister out west somewhere, according to his two-day girlfriend. Parents dead, no other close relatives."
"I quit five years ago, can't stand the stink anymore. Also can't believe I did it for eighteen years. No offence."
"I get one between midnight and noon, one noon to midnight. Down from two packs a year ago." Sprague turned to Jenny Apple. "You getting all this, Patrolman?"
"No, sir." she said.
"Good work. Here they come, get her a bag for that thing, Apple, and help pull up the tire tracks so we can get out of here." Sprague made room for the camera case, tripod and lights. And set the evidence bags gently along side.