by Ben Rehder
Just as Garza was about to use his right front fender to tap the Cherokee behind the left rear wheel, Clements jerked the Jeep onto the shoulder and began slipping past the semi on the right, picking up speed. The three vehicles were approaching a long leftward curve now, and Garza eased into the left lane to see if he could pass the semi. The road was clear for several hundred yards—except for a broken-down truck on the right shoulder, directly in Clements’s path. With the way the road curved, and the semi’s large load, Marlin knew Clements couldn’t see what lay ahead.
Garza and the driver of the semi both spotted the imminent disaster and reacted: Garza pushed firmly on his brakes and put some distance between the cruiser and the semi. The semi began to drift over into the left lane to give Clements a chance to see the truck in his path.
But it was simply too late—and Clements was going too fast now.
He finally spotted the truck and tried to accelerate and cut back in front of the semi. He almost made it, but he clipped the rear of the broken-down truck in an explosion of glass, and began to spin. The rotating Cherokee careened across the highway, bounced off a guardrail, and finally came to a stop in the middle of the highway.
But now Clements was sitting broadside in the path of the semi.
The driver was standing on his brakes, leaving trails of black rubber. Marlin winced: He could see Clements’s terrified face as the semi closed in on the driver’s-side door.
The semi finally began to lose its momentum and drop some speed. It was traveling no more than five miles an hour when it thumped into the Cherokee and pushed it for ten yards down the highway. But the sight of that massive metal grille closing in on him made Maynard Clements pass out cold.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
By the time Marlin and Garza arrived at Blanco County Hospital, deputies were executing a search warrant on Clements’s home and property.
The small hospital was quiet, as usual, but Marlin could sense a buzz of excitement among the staff. Rumors had already spread about Clements’s involvement in the Gammel homicide.
Marlin and Garza proceeded to room 107, where they found Deputy Ernie Turpin posted at the door, as Garza had requested. Garza asked him for details.
“Couple of busted ribs, is all,” Turpin said. “I been poking my head in there every few minutes. He’s awake—I know that much—but not responsive to the doctors. They don’t know if it’s shock or what.”
Inside, Marlin and Garza found Maynard Clements lying quietly, staring upward. His eyes moved in their direction as they entered, then continued to study the ceiling.
Garza pulled a chair up next to the bed, and Marlin hung back behind him.
After a few moments of silence, Garza said, “Maynard?”
Clements gave a small nod.
Garza pulled a small tape recorder from his breast pocket and hit the RECORD button. “Maynard, I’m going to record this conversation, okay?”
In a weak voice, Clements said, “I understand.”
“Now, I’m going to read you your rights, just so we’re clear on what the situation is here.”
Clements didn’t respond.
Garza recited the Miranda warning from memory, then asked Clements if he understood. Maynard gave another small nod.
“Please answer aloud, Maynard.”
“I understand my rights,” Clements whispered.
Garza let a few minutes pass, then quietly said, “Maynard, my deputies are searching your home right now. Your Cherokee, too. All your possessions. I’ve got a pretty good feeling they’re going to find evidence tying you to the death of Bert Gammel.”
Marlin noticed Garza had said “death” rather than “murder.”
Garza continued: “See, no matter how clever you think you are, there’s always something you leave behind. A tire track or a shoe print. Maybe a puddle of tobacco juice. That means DNA evidence, which is almost impossible to beat.”
Clements gave Garza a quick glance, then went right back to looking at the ceiling.
Garza stopped for a moment and crossed his legs. “You grew up here, Maynard, so you know how the people are. You know the kinds of sentences juries come back with. And I’ll be honest with you, Maynard: The district attorney is gonna go for broke on this one—because everything points toward Murder One. You understand what I’m saying to you here?”
Clements squeezed his eyes shut.
“But...” Garza took a small pause. “A confession could go a long way toward helping you out. The only thing the D.A. likes better than a guilty verdict is getting a guilty verdict without having to go to trial. If he can avoid—”
“I did it,” Clements croaked—so quietly Marlin almost missed it.
Marlin felt a charge of adrenaline travel through him, a rush of excitement unlike any he had felt in years. But he struggled to remain perfectly still—like a hunter standing among a herd of deer who haven’t sensed his presence—afraid that any movement would spook Clements back into silence.
“I know you did,” Garza said softly. “Tell me about it.”
Tears sprang from the corners of Clements’s eyes and ran down his temples. Garza passed him a tissue, which Maynard accepted with his left hand, grimacing in pain.
“It’s just like Marlin said: He was bribed, and so was I. But then it all went wrong.”
Clements quit speaking then, for so long that Marlin wondered whether he had changed his mind about confessing. Marlin followed Garza’s lead and simply waited.
Clements seemed almost unaware of the men in the room, as if he were talking to himself, when he finally continued, in a whisper: “We each got twenty thousand dollars in cash. We agreed to lie low for a while, not spend any of the money, until we were sure we weren’t gonna get caught. But Bert couldn’t do it. He got cocky, started showing off with the money…buying things, like that Explorer. He’d flash the money around, acting like a big shot.”
A nurse peeked her head in the door, offered a quizzical look, and Marlin shook his head at her. The door slipped shut quietly behind her.
“Then what happened?” Garza asked gently.
“We had arguments about it. Several times. He said I was paranoid, that we were home free.” Clements’s face contorted in despair. “Then he tried to blackmail me. Said he wanted my share of the money or he’d go to the cops and tell them it was all my idea, that he had nothing to do with it. He double-crossed me.”
Clements paused again.
“I can understand your frustration, Maynard,” Garza said. “What’d you do about it?”
Clements wiped his eyes. “I shot him. I set up near his deer blind…and then I shot him.”
Garza nodded and asked Maynard if he wanted anything to drink. Maynard shook his head. Garza then asked Maynard to give him a recap of the morning he had shot Gammel, and Clements complied.
He had driven onto the Bar T Ranch—next door to the deer lease where Gammel hunted. He had picked a day when he knew the foreman at the Bar T would be out of town at a cattle auction. In the early afternoon, he found a good spot under a cedar tree. Then he waited for Bert Gammel to show up. He didn’t bring any cigarettes because of the telltale smoke—and he was trying to quit anyway. But he was so nervous he needed something. So he had chewed some tobacco. “Guess that stuff is dangerous, huh?” Clements said, no trace of humor on his face.
Garza asked a few more questions until he had the full story. Then he went back to the bribery.
“What did you receive payment for, Maynard—you and Bert? What was the money for?”
An expression of pure shame crossed Clements’s face. “To look the other way on some concrete that didn’t meet code. The builder wanted to use a lower grade and pass it off as spec. To save a bunch of money.”
“Who was the builder?” Garza prodded.
Marlin tensed. His back was aching from standing still for so long. Just a few more minutes, he told himself.
“It was Sal Mameli,” Clements said bitterly, spitt
ing the words out.
“What about Emmett Slaton?”
Clements looked confused.
“Was he involved in any of this?” Garza asked.
“No, not Slaton. Where did you get that idea?” Clements replied. “It was just Mameli. We met at Big Joe’s for lunch one day and he gave me an envelope with forty thousand in cash. I counted it, and then gave twenty to Bert.” Clements was beginning to blubber. “And the concrete... it’s really not a big deal. It’s plenty safe—I know it is—or I wouldn’t have done it.”
“I know you wouldn’t, Maynard,” Garza said. “You’ve always been a good worker for the people of this county.”
Clements gave a small smile. “Thanks, Bobby.”
Garza shifted in his chair. “Last question, Maynard, then you can get some rest: What was Mameli building? What was the concrete for?”
When Marlin heard the answer, his knees went weak.
“The dam,” Clements said in a monotone. “The dam at Pedernales Reservoir.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Darrell,” Garza said over his cell phone. “See if you can get Corey on Wylie’s phone. If you can, tell him he’s cleared. Uh-huh, we’ve got a full confession. Then pull everybody back and see if he’ll come out.”
Marlin couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but he knew the dispatcher was having a tough time believing what his boss was saying. “No, I don’t want you to go in—under any circumstances,” Garza said firmly. “Just pull back and let him come out in his own sweet time. We clear? All right, then, I’m heading over to the Public Works Department for a few minutes and…no…no, I can’t explain right now. Goddammit, Darrell, just do what I’m asking you, okay? I’ll see you within the hour.” Garza hung up. “I swear, just getting people to follow orders around here….”
“So, what’s next with Mameli?” Marlin asked.
“I’ll call the team at Maynard’s house and see if they find the envelope where he said it would be. If we can pull Mameli’s prints off that one, too, we’ll be in good shape. We’ll take a look at Mameli’s bank accounts, see if he had any big withdrawals prior to his meeting with Maynard. Probably interview the waiters at Big Joe’s, in case one of them can verify seeing the two of them together. I’d say it looks pretty solid, though.” He glanced Marlin’s way. “Listen, this is still your case if you want it. Just tell me how much you want to be involved.”
Five minutes later, Marlin and Garza were standing in front of Toby Gardner, who was the Public Works Director, Gammel’s and Clements’s supervisor.
“Thanks for meeting us, Toby.”
“Glad to help,” Gardner said. “But I’m not sure what I’m helping with.”
Garza turned to Marlin. “You want to fill him in?”
Marlin recapped their conversation with Maynard Clements, hitting the high points but omitting any details about the murder of Bert Gammel.
Gardner stared at Marlin incredulously. “Do you believe him?” he asked. “I mean, was he loopy on painkillers or anything?”
Marlin shook his head.
Garza said, “We have no reason to think he’s lying…and plenty of reasons to think he’s telling the truth. Unfortunately, I can’t go into them all right now. It involves a case, and I’m not at liberty to—”
Gardner held up his hands. “Say no more. If you tell me it’s true, then as far as I’m concerned, it’s true.”
“The question, then,” Marlin said, “is, can we believe Clements? Is the dam a threat or not?”
Gardner frowned. “If that concrete’s not up to code, I’d say we’ve got a big problem on our hands. See, these codes aren’t arbitrary. Certain grades of concrete can withstand higher pressures, and—”
“No offense,” Garza interrupted, “but you don’t need to explain it to us, Toby. Just tell us what we need to do next.”
Both men stared at Gardner, who stared back. “Oh, I don’t think there’s any question about that,” Gardner stated flatly. “We’ve got to empty the reservoir.”
Sal Mameli was drinking scotch, watching the evening news and waiting for Maria to serve dinner—but his thoughts were wandering. Once again, he was daydreaming of a tropical island—now more than ever—but he sure as shit didn’t like the dark clouds looming on the horizon. There wasn’t any goddamn sunshine in his life right now, that was for certain.
Everything should have been so easy.
Buy out Emmett Slaton, get every goddamn brush-cutting contract from here to Houston, then grab every last dime and get the fuck out. Screw the clients. Screw the creditors. But no, Slaton had to be a hard-ass, giving Sal no choice but to take him out. And this tree-hugging duo from who-the-fuck-knows-where. It was like they were sent here as a practical joke by some jamook, just to give him a major pain in the balls. At least the little leg-breaking bastard was out of the picture, on the run from the law. But the broad…she was still hanging around town, according to Vinnie. Sal had told Vinnie to give her a good scare—an I’ll kill all your loved ones kind of scare, the type that makes people leave town in the middle of the night. Apparently, she didn’t scare that easy. Sal had asked Vinnie about her this morning, and Vinnie had said, She’s a tough bitch, Pop. I’m still working on it.
Sal hadn’t liked the way that sounded. But, truth be told, that broad was on the back burner now, ever since this afternoon. He had more important things to do, like keeping a lid on this Slaton thing. He had to laugh, really. A shitstorm had hit Blanco County, but he had managed to keep his own dirty laundry buried. So far, anyway. He didn’t like those two cops—well, that cop and that game warden—coming to his house. What was their problem, anyway? Sal’s fingerprints on an envelope? Get the fuck out of here with that—that’s what any decent attorney would say. It proves nothing. But it was Sal’s piss-poor luck that Gammel had gone and gotten himself whacked, and that the cops had had to come nosing around about it. Yeah, so maybe he had bribed Bert Gammel, but Sal was in the clear on the murder beef. He’d had nothing to do with that. But the big question was, after the cops had asked him about Bert Gammel, why in the fuck did they bring up Emmett Slaton? That was the one thing that made Sal nervous. It didn’t make sense.
Sal turned up the set as KHIL cut to a reporter—a good-looking broad with nice-sized jugs named Kitty Katz.
You gotta be kidding, Sal thought. Sounded like a stripper, not a reporter. Kitty was trying to look all serious and dramatic, standing in front of the courthouse.
“There has never been a chain of events quite like the past few days here in Blanco County—that much everyone can agree on. It all started nearly forty-eight hours ago when Jack Corey, a suspect in the murder of Blanco County employee Bert Gammel, shot a sheriff’s deputy and began a standoff in the building you see behind me. For days, Corey has remained holed up with the wounded deputy, refusing to negotiate a surrender. But just moments ago, we received word that there is another suspect in the homicide, and the new suspect has indeed confessed...”
Sal watched as the station cut to a clip of an earlier interview. Some goofy-looking deputy standing there, looking cocky in front of the camera. His name—DEPUTY ERNIE TURPIN—was superimposed on the bottom of the screen.
“We do have a full confession on record, but I’m not at liberty to identify the suspect at this time. But this does mean that Mr. Corey is no longer a suspect, and we are encouraging him to end the standoff immediately.”
The camera cut back to the reporter.
“So far, however, neither Corey nor the deputy have emerged. Meanwhile, there is still no development in the disappearance of local rancher and businessman Emmett Slaton, who has been missing since Wednesday. Anyone with information pertaining to the case is asked to call the Blanco County Sheriff’s Department. Remarkably, another odd story has made headlines lately in this small, normally quiet county—the escape of a suspect in an assault-on-an-officer case. The suspect, Thomas Peabody…”
Sal gave an involuntary yelp as a photo of Peabody
appeared on the screen.
“... remains at large. He was arrested after an altercation at an assembly in the Johnson City High School gymnasium. He resisted arrest, assaulting an officer in the process, and later escaped in the confusion when the officer—you guessed it—brought his prisoner to the sheriff’s office here, just after the current standoff began.”
The camera cut back to the reporter.
“Strangely, Peabody is credited with breaking up an attempted rape late last night, then disappearing once more before deputies arrived.”
Sal winced. An attempted rape? What was that all about? Goddamn—could they be referring to Vinnie? Did he try to rape that bird-loving broad? That’s all he needed, the cops breathing down his neck on account of his hard-dick son. Time to have a talk with the boy, tell him to ease off till further notice.