“You have got to be shittin’ me. I’ll be starting at Union again next year. We’ll have a great team, win state easy, I guarantee it. Dad, I’m the quarterback of the best high school team in Oklahoma. I don’t give a damn if Jenks did luck out and win the championship this year, but we’d beat those ass holes 9 out 10 if we played the games.
“Language, Boomer, language,” Marlene said, knowing her son would ignore her as he always did.
His voice rising in anger, Boomer continued. “Who the hell ever heard of Boise City? Is that even in America? No, no way! I’m not moving. I’m staying! I’ll live here in Tulsa with one of the guys on the team or better yet, you can just get me an apartment.”
Marlene sipped her coffee, inwardly cringing, waiting for the inevitable argument.
Big Bill scooted his kitchen chair backward making a screeching sound on the tile, puffed out his chest, and bent over the table as close as his belly would allow. “You will not stay here. You will not have an apartment. You will come with us and you will play football at your new school next fall. It’ll only be for one season, Boomer, a few games. OU will be on our doorstep—probably coach Stoops himself—begging you to come and play for them. You know that as well as I do, Son. It’s a lock. Look, when you get your scholarship, you’ll live on campus while your mother and I live in Boise and build the dealership. By the time you go pro, I will have moved up in this world. I intend to have the biggest Ford dealership in the state before I hit 50. This is what I’ve dreamed of for years. This is my start, my chance to be something besides someone who trots all over a scorching hot car lot conning little old ladies and gullible teenagers to make someone else rich. It’s a win-win Boomer, for both of us.” Bill straightened, pushed his chair back under the table. “This conversation is over.”
If Big Bill had done his homework a little better, he might not have been so insistent to move his wife and talented son to the edge of Oklahoma. Somehow, he’d overlooked the population census of Cimarron County, a mere 2475 souls, not exactly the most fertile of markets for selling new cars. He’d done a Google search, knew that Boise City was a small town, but with its proximity to four states and plenty of advertising, Big Bill was counting on customers from dozens of other towns such as Liberal in Kansas, Lamar in Colorado, Stratford and Dalhart in Texas, and maybe a few from New Mexico. There were tourists as well. Black Mesa State Park, while not exactly a resort by any stretch, still had a lot of visitors to hike the trail to Black Mesa Peak, the highest point in Oklahoma. Word would spread.
The house he picked for Marlene and Boomer cost far more than Big Bill could afford, but damn it, he couldn’t live in some broken-down old house and project the image he fully intended to build. “Bill, Honey, my daddy would loan you the money, “Marlene had told him as she did almost every day. “I know he would. All you have to do is ask.”
Screw that. No way would Big Bill Kingston cave in and suck up to that jerk. The way Big Bill looked at it, if money got tight, he still had an ace in the hole and that ace had a picture of Boomer Kingston on it. No doubt Boomer would go pro, if not his sophomore year at OU, certainly as a junior. If the boy could get a contract such as OU quarterback and Heisman Trophy winner Sam Bradford had landed, Big Bill might not have to sell another car for the rest of his life. Instead he would spend his time traveling from city to city such as Miami, L.A., or Denver, and watch his gifted son play ball in front of tens of thousands of adulatory fans. It was a comforting thought.
But just as when his ACL had snapped on another warm September day almost identical to this one, Big Bill’s dreams became nightmares when Marlene called him at the Kingston Ford of Boise City office. “Come home, Bill, right now. Some policemen are here. Boomer’s in trouble.”
And Boomer wasn’t the only one.
Chapter 38
“Boomer? I’m Sheriff Morrison but you can call me Lester. Just put the gun down, son. Let’s talk about this.”
Boomer Kingston was scared, confused, and desperate. He was in more trouble than he’d ever been in his life, and entirely incapable of making good decisions. He pointed the nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson at the Sheriff’s head, the barrel wavering in small circles. “Get away from me! Leave! I’ll shoot you. I will.”
“You mind if I turn this lamp on?” Lester asked, gesturing toward a fixture with a plastic football as a base. “My old eyes are having trouble seeing in this light.”
Lester found the switch and took his hat off, hoping to look less like a man there to take a boy to jail and more like a grandpa who dropped by to talk football with his grandson.
“Mind if I sit down, take a load off?”
“I told you to leave,” Boomer said, his voice trembling. “I mean it.”
“Boomer, I’ll be happy to do just that, but give me a minute, okay?” Lester hesitated, waited for a response, didn’t get one, and sat on the foot of the bed.
“You need to calm down and think about this situation, son. You’re a smart kid. Hell, you’re the quarterback of the Boise City Wildcats. Quarterbacks are smart. And you are too. Now, let me tell you something. Yeah, you’re probably gonna get written up for speeding and probably reckless driving. No big deal. Lots of kids get traffic tickets. Look, I’ll even forget about that poke in the jaw you gave me. I might have come on a little strong back there at the school. Maybe you were scared and just lashed out. I can understand that. Again, no big deal. But if you shoot me? Shoot a Sheriff? Well, you can see where that would go, can’t you Boomer? You can’t shoot a police officer, have your daddy pay a fine, and go on about your business. Doesn’t work like that. Quit while your ahead, son. Hand me the gun. I’ll write out a little traffic ticket, just doing my job, and we’ll both walk out of here. How bout it, Boomer? Make sense?”
A voice erupted from the doorway, angry, “Hey you! What the hell are you doing in my house?”
Big Bill Kingston, ex-OU defensive end, once 280 pounds of muscle and fat, now mostly fat, stepped inside the room, his red face matching the color of his tie with the OU logo. Billy Ray was close behind.
“You got a warrant goddamnit? Why are you hassling my son?”
Lester stood and moved toward the door. He held up one hand like a school crossing guard with a stop sign on a stick. “Mr. Kingston. Ease off. We got a situation here.”
Big Bill brushed Lester away like he was going for the head of a Texas quarterback and charged into the bedroom. The sight of the gun stopped him.
“Boomer! What the hell you doing with my gun, boy? You gone nuts? Here, give me that. Right now!”
Boomer blurted out, “Everything’s over. My life is over. Mostly because I took your advice, like I always seem to do. Yeah, I got drunk. I screwed up. Again. Like I’m forever doing in your eyes. But this was different, that girl …”
“Shut up, Boomer!” Big Bill shouted and raised his meaty hand. “You shut your mouth right now, you hear me? Don’t say another word! I’ll slap the dog-shit out of you!”
Boomer steadied the gun, feeling a strange sense of calm, and aimed it at his father’s chest. “No. You shut up,” he said, and smiled. Even in the dim light, the slight glaze across the boy’s eyes was the tip off. The grin clinched it. Lester made his move, sprang at the quarterback with a quickness he didn’t know he still had, and took him to the floor. Before Lester could grab the gun, an explosion rocked the room. Marlene screamed from the hallway. Billy Ray was in the doorway in a shooter’s stance, gun drawn and ready. The bullet missed Big Bill Kingston, barely, plowed through the sheetrock, tore wood from a wall stud, and stopped in the middle of Marlene’s walk-in closet down the hall, but not before making unsightly holes in three of her favorite designer dresses.
Billy Ray jumped to Lester’s aid, made a dive for the gun, got a grip on the barrel, and jerked it up and away from Boomer’s powerful grasp. Lester held on, straddling the back of the boy like a rodeo bull. As he tried to bend Boomer’s arm behind him far enough for the handcuffs, the boy ma
naged to get one knee under his body and made a move to stand. Cleary outweighed and outmuscled, Lester drew back a right hand and put all he had into a roundhouse punch that caught the boy just below the cheekbone. Boomer folded and spit blood, the fight gone.
“That was for the cheap shot back at the school,” Lester muttered. “Call the city cops, Billy Ray. Tell ‘em we got their speeder.”
A shaken Marlene was at the door, her hand to her mouth. “You’re taking my boy to jail?”
“Oh yes, Ma’am,” Lester said, pulling Boomer to his feet with Billy Ray’s help. “We got assaulting a peace officer, unlawful flight to avoid arrest, speeding, reckless driving, attempted murder on your husband, and from what I heard just now, the possible murder of Melissa Parker. I reckon that would mean jail for just about anyone including the star quarterback for the Boise City Wildcats as well as the son of Big Bill Kingston.”
Marlene opened her mouth but no words came out. Big Bill sat on the bed, head bent over his ample belly, breathing hard. “After all I’ve done for that boy, now this.”
The sound of sirens penetrated the window. Two black and whites rocked to a halt in the middle of the street and two uniformed drivers, one of them officer John Bowman, bailed out, guns drawn. “Let’s get this boy downstairs before those cops shoot somebody,” Lester said, yanking on Boomer’s elbow.
“Bill, do something,” Marlene whimpered. “Don’t let them take our son out of here like a common criminal.” But the owner of Kingston Ford, the hulk of a man who once tore through offensive lines and wrecked havoc on opposing quarterbacks, felt powerless to do much of anything.
Halfway down the stairs with their prisoner, Lester and Billy Ray were met by the city cops. “Put your guns away fellas, it’s under control,” Lester said.
From the top of the stairs Big Bill yelled, “Don’t worry, son; I’ll get a lawyer, the best in the state. Just keep your mouth shut and don’t say a word.”
Back in the street Lester checked the brass nametag and said “Officer Bowman, would you kindly transport this young man to jail. I find myself without proper official transportation at the moment.”
John Bowman looked at the black Camaro askew in the driveway, front tires on the grass. “Hey, that’s the car that passed me like a bat out of hell awhile ago. You were driving weren’t you? Son-of-a-bitch! I would have caught this kid, Sheriff, if you hadn’t butted in. You’re out of line, interfering like that, that was city business.”
“Was while he was inside the city limits, Officer Bowman. I only chased him while he was outside the city limits.”
“Now see,” John Bowman said, “that’s why our departments do not get along. We can’t get a lick of cooperation from you and…”
“Put him in your car Officer, I’ll see you at the courthouse,” Lester said and turned away. Billy Ray, you drive. I think I’ll stay with my pickup from now on.”
The jail at the Boise City Courthouse had two cells, neither of which had seen an occupant for the last six months. The most recent visitor was a painter that had one beer too many at the Moonshiner Lounge, ran his truck over a fire hydrant, and spilled green paint over a good portion of Harper Avenue.
Boomer Kingston was given his choice of accommodations, Cell One or Cell Two. Since he did not indicate a preference, Billy Ray guided him into the one that looked the cleanest. The prisoner was directed to strip and pass all his clothes between the bars. He complied. Lester appeared with the standard orange coveralls and waited until Boomer had dressed before entering the cell.
“Have a seat on the bunk, Boomer. We didn’t get a chance to finish our talk earlier. Billy Ray, you read him his rights?”
Billy Ray nodded, “I did, but I need to speak with you privately for a moment.”
“Now?”
“Especially now.”
Lester shrugged, locked the cell door, and followed his deputy to the office.
“What in tarnation is so all fired important, Billy Ray?”
Billy Ray shut the door and said, “According to school records, Boomer’s not yet eighteen years old, Sheriff. In the eyes of Oklahoma law, he’s still a minor. You question him now, without the presence of his parents or a lawyer, and whatever he says will be inadmissible in court.”
Lester blinked his eyes. “Since when you start gettin’ all legal on me?”
“Since we might be close to finding out what really happened to Melissa, that’s when.”
The Sheriff scratched the back of his head “I suppose you got a point but just how do you propose I get any information out of this kid if I can’t ask him any questions.”
“There might be a way around it. I thought you should know before we go any further with this. I was reading about a case on the Internet a while back, similar to what we got here. It had something do with what the courts called a rescue doctrine. It basically said that if there is imminent need to save a human life, the rescue doctrine can be argued as an exception to the Miranda rule. Since we don’t really know if Melissa is alive or dead, well…”
“You found this on the Internet?”
Billy Ray shrugged. “Well, yeah. I read about Oklahoma law whenever I can. I don’t want to be a deputy all my life you know. I just might take your job one of these days.”
Lester grinned. “Fine with me boy, I’ll even vote for ya.”
*****
It was a completely different set of conditions from an hour ago when Boomer was in the familiar surroundings of his own bedroom and holding a gun. Sixty minutes ago, he was the one in charge. But, here, in the cell, the Sheriff’s voice had lost its good-old-boy, I’m-just-like-your-grandpa, tone. Instead, a lawman with a hard face and a stained cowboy hat stood over Boomer like he’d just roped a calf and was about to hog-tie him.
“Son, I’m gonna tell you that we are recording this conversation, just so you know.”
Billy Ray pushed a button on a black box he’d brought from the office.
“Now, my deputy and I made a long drive to Oklahoma City yesterday. Would you like to know why?”
“My dad told me not to say anything,” Boomer replied.
“Well your daddy ain’t here now. It’s just you and me and Deputy Ledbetter here. You can say anything you want. Understand?”
Boomer slumped and looked at the concrete floor.
Lester said, “We went to Okie City to see a friend of yours at the OU Medical Center. I believe he’s on your football team, a boy by the name of Carlos Sanchez. You do know Carlos, don’t you, Boomer?”
Lester waited a second for a confirmation, didn’t get it, but continued anyway.
“Carlos had an automobile accident and was in a coma up until yesterday morning. He hit a deer, racked him up pretty bad. Did you know anything about that?”
Lester moved closer, leaned down, and lowered his voice. “Son, you’re in enough trouble already. Don’t make it any worse. You need to talk to me. You’re in over your head here. Mr. Sanchez tells me that you were the last person to see Melissa Parker alive. He said you left the Pirate’s Den last Thursday night with Melissa in your car. She’s been missing ever since. I’m going to find that girl, Boomer, dead or alive, and I’m going to stay on your ass until you tell me what happened that night. Got it?”
“I want to call my dad.”
“DID YOU KILL HER?” Lester shouted.
“No!”
Lester straightened, felt the old familiar twinge of chronic pain in his lower back and stretched, hoping for a little relief. A wooden straight back chair sat just inside the short hallway and Lester drug it to the cell, turned it backward, sat down with a plop, and folded his arms across the back.
After a few minutes of intense staring, “Do you want to be called Greg or Boomer?” Lester asked, his voice now soft.
The boy interrupted his study of the floor and looked up. “I like Greg. It’s my dad that wanted to call me Boomer. Stupid name if you ask me. I hated it but it stuck.”
“Okay, Greg.
Tell me what happened after Melissa got in your car that night.”
“Can’t. Can’t do that,” Greg moaned, his eyes back on the floor.
“Did something bad happen Greg, something you didn’t intend? Did things get out of hand?”
The talented young quarterback drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Almost imperceptibly, his head nodded once, then again.
“Did you two have an argument?” Lester asked. “Did it get physical?”
“We… uh, oh hell. Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! I was drunk. So was she. Bad drunk, we all were. It should have never happened. I’m so sorry. Oh Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“Go on, son.” Lester said.
Silence; broken only by a noisy truck with a bad muffler headed home on 412. A telephone from some policeman’s desk buzzed, unanswered. Three or four minutes passed before Lester turned to Billy Ray who pointed at his watch. The unspoken message: Not much time before a lawyer gets here. Lester shrugged. What else can I do?
Chapter 39
Across town, attorney-at-law John R. Masters was holding the phone a good two inches from his ear while Big Bill Kingston ranted.
“Johnny, quit arguing with me and get your ass down to the courthouse right this fucking minute! Did you not hear me say that our goofy Sheriff has my son Boomer in jail? What part of jail don’t you understand? What the hell is your problem?”
Lawyer Masters was not accustomed to bearing the brunt of such a tirade. Under normal circumstances and had he not needed the business, would have told Big Bill to take his problems elsewhere. Truth was, other than a few property disputes and a speeder or two waiting to plead not guilty to traffic tickets and keeping the violation off their insurance, John Masters, despite being the only lawyer in Cimarron County, wasn’t all that busy and needed the work.
Fraidy Hole: A Sheriff Lester P. Morrison Novel Page 30