“Huh? Oh yeah. I was going to tell you about what I heard out at Lydell’s this morning. Well, actually there’s two things. First George, that’s LeBrun, I seen him hanging around, you know? Like more than once out at Lydell’s.”
“That’s interesting. Any idea why?”
“No sir, sorry. Just thought it might be something, and then there’s the other thing. It might or might not have anything to do with anything either, you know, but…well anyway, I was out there in the back stacking the wood I split the day before and I hear him and Miss Martha Marie upstairs going at it.”
“That’s Lydell and his daughter…going at it?”
“Yeah. And she’s yelling, which is no surprise on account of her drinking and all, and he’s hollering back.”
“And the problem is?”
“He don’t ordinarily yell back at her when she’s you know, sauced. He just shakes his head, sad like, but not then. They was going at it big time.”
“You hear anything helpful?”
“I don’t know if I did or not. He’s going on about some old documents and how she had no right to do this or that, and she’s yelling something like he’s a hypnotist—it sounded like that—but that don’t make no sense, either.”
“Hypocrite.”
“What?”
“She probably called him a hypocrite, not a hypnotist.”
“Yeah? Well you might be right there. Anyhow, that got me to thinking about documents. See, the day before he called me in on the carpet, so to say, and asked had I seen some old papers of his. I didn’t know what he was talking about but he sure acted spooked.”
“Documents?”
“Yep. He’s on about them papers. I don’t know what they were about, but it sure had him riled and then this morning he’s hollering at Miss Martha Marie, so I figured you might want to know about that.”
“Thank you, Henry. I don’t know what to do with it, but something tells me to remember it. Maybe it’ll come to me later. That all?” Ike stared at Henry’s hair, or more accurately, the lack thereof, and realized in the scuffle at Lydell’s, he’d completely missed Henry’s newly bald pate. “What happened to your hair, Henry?”
“I had Miss Lee lop it off, the hair, I mean. I can hide the tats, of course, and yes sir, that’s pretty much it, unless you got a minute to talk about the academy. See, I know I messed up the first time and maybe I ain’t supposed to be in law enforcement, but I’d like to give it another go.”
“Henry, you go for it, if that’s what you want. You see how your brothers handle it. Billy at work here and Frank over with the State Police, so you know what you’re getting into, I guess.”
“I was thinking more along the line of being an evidence technician. You know CSI and all that. You’d be okay sponsoring me?”
“Sure, why not? Good luck with that.”
Henry grinned a thank you, and Ike noted the small hole in his lip that must have supported a stud not too long ago. Henry seemed to be cleaning up his act. What he’d do about the holes in his ears was something else. Ike waved him out and started to sift through the pile of paper on his desk. He found the Crime Lab’s preliminary report under a discount coupon for pizza.
***
The Passaic Public Library faxed a list of books Grotz had borrowed in the past year and referred Sam to the Passaic Historical Society. The curator—Sam guessed that’s who it was—seemed reluctant at first to share any information with her. Sam reminded her she was following a lead in a murder investigation. That did the trick.
“Oh yes, it’s not easy to forget a name like Grotz,” she said. Sam waited. “Okay, I have it here. He read several old letters in the Walzak file. The family left them with us a few years ago. They had an ancestor who was killed in the Civil War and they thought we might be interested in some old letters and notes he wrote at that time.”
“Can you tell me if there is anything in them that might help us?”
“I really don’t know. What would you be looking for?”
That was the question, certainly. What indeed. “I’m not sure. We only have some overdue library books and an interest in the Shenandoah Valley campaign to go on. Would it be possible for you to copy the documents he spent his time on and send them to us?”
“Oh dear, I don’t know. Well, you see, the problem is, we are missing some of the documents in that file. We assumed Mr. Grotz must have taken them, but…well, we can’t be sure and don’t like to…”
“We will be more than happy to search for them at this end. Perhaps they are with his personal items.” Sam knew better, but she hoped the possibility that the documents might be retrievable would help with the decision. “We would cover any charges, of course,” Sam said, although she couldn’t be sure if she had it right. She listened as the person on the other end of the line conferred with someone else.
“Yes, we can fax you the documents. No charge for that, of course.”
Sam gave them a fax number.
Chapter 23
Traces of pseudaphedrine, cocaine, methamphetamine, cannabis, ethanol, and caffeine residue…cough syrup, coke, meth, pot, booze, and coffee! The report continued with a laundry list of chemicals that Ike recognized as fillers, solvents, sugars, and other inconsequential materials. He read the report with growing concern. A few smudged prints on the cup lids, AFIS search tentatively identifies: LeBrun, George, on four points only. The glassine bags yielded small amounts of crystal meth mixed with inositol. The car had Daryll Jenkins’ prints, but then it would. He worked on the car.
Methamphetamine worried Ike. Except for some recreational use of pot and, lately, ecstasy, at the high school and up at the college, the town had managed, so far, to avoid the worst of the nation’s pervasive drug culture. Now, it seemed, he faced the double nightmare of cocaine, crystal meth, and God only knew what else. Karl entered the outer office with a young man in tow. Ike moved to meet them.
“Sheriff,” Karl said, “this is Tommy.”
“Tommy? Last name?”
“He says he isn’t saying anything, including his name. He wants to ‘lawyer up.’”
“Where do you suppose he learned that? Tommy, what do you mean you want to lawyer up?” The boy looked confused, dropped his gaze and studied his shoes. “What have you done, son, which would require calling a lawyer?”
“Nothing. I didn’t do nothing, Sheriff. I was walking through the pasture out by Mr. Wainwright’s and I found it.”
“Found it? Could you be more specific?”
“What about my lawyer?”
“What’s his name?”
“Huh?”
“You wanted to call your lawyer. I’ll do that, but I need a name.”
“I don’t know any lawyers.”
“You want us to provide one, is that it?”
“I don’t know. Like, on the TV, they get lawyers and stuff.”
Ike sighed, and silently cursed the television industry for making his job impossibly complex as thousands of otherwise sensible people assumed without DNA and exotic forensic evidence, even a full confession wouldn’t convict.
“Tommy, let’s get something straight. You have not been charged with a crime, so you don’t need a lawyer unless there is something about finding an old revolver that can incriminate you. Second, we have a copy of your driver’s license and we already know your name. And finally, this is a murder investigation, and unless you want to be an accessory after the fact, and do some serious jail time, you need to tell us about the gun.” The latter was a stretch but Ike figured if the kid didn’t know anything more than televisionland law, it would work. It did.
“I ain’t going to no jail. I didn’t do nothing.”
“You found the gun. You want to give us the details now?”
Tommy squinched up his face and reached into his windbreaker pocket for a pack of cigarettes.
“Not in here, son.”
He dropped the pack back in his pocket. “So, now do we go into a room wit
h the one-way glass mirror window?”
Karl started to laugh and then caught himself. With as much patience as he could muster, Ike led him into his office.
“Okay, Tommy, talk to me.”
“See, I found it out in the woods. You know, like, where Wainwright’s back pasture touches Mr. Lydell’s? Well, there’s this old hollow stump back on the fence line. I used to hide stuff there when I was a kid.” Ike smiled at Tommy’s kid. “Anyway, Mister Lydell chased me off a couple of times so I ain’t been back for a while. Well, old Wainwright just plowed that back lot and I was out there looking for arrowheads. They’re worth some money at the souvenir shop. So I think, I’ll just stroll over and have a look-see in my old stump. And there it was.”
“Why did you try to sell it? When I was your age, I’d have cleaned it up and kept it.”
“I figured it was worth some money and I wanted to get me some.”
“For?”
“I ain’t saying.”
Ike let that pass. “Was there anything else in the stump?”
“Just some old junk, like it’s been there forever.”
Ike swiveled around to catch Karl’s eye. He, in turn, produced a notebook and pen. “What kind of junk?”
“There’s a match box, all rotted up that had some old pennies. I think they must have been Billy Shorter’s, but he’s moved away somewhere. Me and him used to hide stuff in that stump back awhile. And an old key.”
“Key?”
“Yeah, like an old time door key. It was in there, too. Oh, and a box of bullets.”
Ike gazed at the boy who shifted from side-to-side and looked at him and then Karl. “Am I in trouble, Sheriff?”
“There are traces of marijuana on the pistol grip. That wouldn’t have anything to do with your needing money would it?” Karl glanced sharply at Ike. No test had been run on the piece and he had no idea what Ike was up to. The kid’s lower lip began to quiver.
“It wasn’t my idea,” he said. “It were Daryll’s.”
“Daryll. That would be George LeBrun’s cousin, Daryll Jenkins?”
“Yes sir.”
“He wanted you to sell or buy?”
“Sell, out at school. I owed him for some…you won’t tell my folks?”
“Thank you, Tommy. I’m going to call your mom and dad now, and release you in their custody. I want you to tell them to bring in all the stuff you found with the gun when they come to pick you up. And Tommy…”
“Yes sir?”
“You don’t want to get mixed up with drugs, you hear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Karl, go pick up Daryll Jenkins.”
***
Karl walked into the garage where the man he assumed to be Jenkins stood under a rusted out Ford Explorer up on the grease rack, and struggled to free its oil filter. Karl let him unwind a string of obscenities before he spoke.
“Jenkins?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Daryll said, without ducking his head to see who addressed him.
“You want to pop out here for a minute?”
“Who’s asking.”
Karl considered for a moment and said, “FBI.”
“O…kay. Now we’re talking. You’re here about the stuff in the sheriff’s car, right?” Daryll ducked out from under, and took in Karl. Jenkins had the same beetling brows as his cousin. That constituted the only similarity between the two. “Hey, wait a minute,” he muttered, “you ain’t FBI, you’re the sheriff’s boy, ain’t that right?”
Karl slipped his nightstick free and tapped Daryll on the right knee. The knee buckled and Daryll Jenkins dropped to the floor.
“Hey. Ow. You can’t do that. I’m reporting you to the cops.”
“I am the cops, Stupid. Now stand up and put your hands behind your back.”
“You got nothing on me, boy.”
There was that word again. Karl tapped the other knee, this time harder. Daryll went down again. “There’s nobody here but you and me, you little dirt bag, so it’s your word against mine. Judges never listen to drug dealers anyway, so, you’re done. Now, get up and put your hands—”
“Behind my back. Okay, okay. Just keep that stick away from me. What’s the charge?”
“Solicitation to sell illegal drugs, for one, planting false evidence in a police car, and, I expect, we’ll find some more things to throw at you before Friday.”
***
George LeBrun needed to talk to his cousin. Either the Falco bitch sold him out or his cousin, Daryll, did. He rounded the corner of the garage in time to see Karl Hedrick lead Daryll away. He ducked back behind a stack of used tires. Neither man saw him. When the two had driven away, he slipped into the office. He riffled through the top drawer of a three drawer filing cabinet and emptied it of its contents, which he shoved into a dirty gunny sack. He spun and walked back into the garage area. It wouldn’t do to have the sheriff’s office return with a warrant, and they surely would. He had no illusions about his cousin. The jerk would blab his head off inside a half hour. He removed a key from his jacket pocket and unlocked a door to what appeared to be a small storage room. Nothing in it would survive a fire. There would be no usable evidence other than some scorched cans and jars. He’d already disposed of the cough medicine bottles in the dumpster down the alley behind Schwartz’s place. He carried in a gallon can of gasoline, poured it on the counter and floor, stepped outside, and tossed in a lighted match. He slammed the door and walked away. Now that’s some real meth cooking. Too bad about Daryll’s garage. He hoped the moron had insurance.
Chapter 24
The fax machine hummed to life and began spitting out sheets of paper. The cover sheet indicated thirty pages would be forthcoming. Sam glanced at the first, a letter written in elegant copperplate, to a Mr. F. Brian, from an acquaintance in Frederick, Maryland. The Walzak file, apparently. Sam skimmed the pages as they collected in the tray. Ancient folds and creases, and the fading occasioned by the passage of over a century and a half, made them difficult to read. She wished she could have seen the originals. It appeared the late Mr. Franklin Brian of Trenton, New Jersey had some very interesting things to say about some of Virginia’s more illustrious citizens, now long departed. Bolton, Virginia appeared in several later documents.
She collected the stack and retreated to her office where she spread them out on a countertop with the list of books Grotz had borrowed from the Passaic Public Library. She sorted them by date, and then cross referenced them to the books on the list. An hour passed. As she read, a frown creased her forehead. Later, it was replaced by a puzzled look, and that, finally, by one of comprehension. She scooped up documents, the book list, and headed for the college library.
***
Jonathan Lydell refused to speak to anyone other than the sheriff himself. Rita, who’d come on duty at four, wigwagged for Ike to pick up.
“Sheriff, I want to report a theft.” Lydell sounded distracted, worried.
“Mr. Lydell, you do not have to call me personally. The dispatcher will send a deputy to speak to you and take your statement.”
“Thank you, I’m sure that is the routine, however, you must understand this is a matter of some urgency and I do not wish to place myself in the hands of anyone less than the top man, so to speak.”
Ike guessed, Lydell had probably already called the State Police, and had been rebuffed by them. Now he had to deal with the locals, a breed with which he had little or no patience.
“Okay, tell me what was stolen and I will put someone on it immediately.”
“A weapon, a family heirloom, you might say, a very old firearm, to be exact. It has some sentimental value. It was given to my late brother by his opposite number in the British Army—Cairo, Field Marshall Montgomery, Rommel, El Alamein, military intelligence, and all that.”
“I see. By any chance, would the weapon in question be a Webley, .455 caliber?”
“Excuse me, but how did you know?”
“It, or one very muc
h like it, turned up as part of our investigation. What can you tell me about the weapon?”
“Well, I just spoke of its origin. What else would you like to know?”
“When did you miss it?”
“Why, today, of course.”
“Today?”
“Yes, most certainly, today. I was searching for some documents that I had…misplaced and, well, in the excitement of Martha Marie’s accident and…” his voice broke.
“Yes, I see. You were searching for some papers. Could the pistol have been stolen earlier?”
Lydell sighed and collected himself. “I suppose it could have. Are you suggesting it might be the weapon that killed that man?”
“It is possible, certainly. How are you holding up?”
“Holding up? What on earth…oh, you mean because of poor Martha Marie. Very well, under the circumstances, I think. She drank, you know. Spirits were her undoing, I’m afraid.”
“We will need to hold the pistol for a while, Mr. Lydell, at least until the ballistics tests are run and we can establish or eliminate it as a murder weapon.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll have to ask you to come in and identify it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you find your papers?”
“Papers? You mean the missing documents? Ah…Yes, I did, thank you.” The line stayed silent. Ike started to hang up when Lydell spoke again. His voice seemed far away. “About Martha Marie, my daughter…”
“I had a word with the coroner. The post is complete and you can make whatever arrangements necessary.”
“Was there anything…did he mention…?”
“I’ll have the report tomorrow. If there is anything you need to know, I will call you.”
“Yes, thank you.” Lydell hung up. Ike drummed his fingertips beating out the rhythm to The Teddy Bear’s Picnic.
***
Karl studied Daryll Jenkins. The clock on the wall, a survivor of another, simpler era, ticked away, marking time. Jenkins fidgeted, squirmed, and wiped his hands on his greasy jeans. Karl waited. He knew that only hardened criminals, the really tough guys, could sit and endure long periods of silence. Amateurs, like this one, would soon cave in and start talking. Jenkins first tried a stare down and lost. His gaze darted away from Karl’s unremitting one and settled on the window. Outside, a lone, unkempt lilac seemed ready to burst into bloom a week before all the others in town, the beneficiary of high doses of carbon monoxide and heat from the parking lot next to it. The temperature in the room climbed.
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