by Crider, Bill
Napier stood up. "Don't try to get my goat. I don't care if he threw it in the city dump. We'll find it, and then he'll have to confess."
Burns's mind seized on the image of Coach Thomas in a small, dank dungeon with Napier standing over him while wielding a rubber hose, or perhaps a battery cable.
Napier must have noticed the look on Burns's face. "Don't worry," he said. "We're not going to hurt your pal. We don't have to do things like that anymore. You'd be surprised how most people are affected by just a few days in jail, especially if they've never been in one before."
"I can imagine," Burns said.
"Yeah, I bet you can." Napier stood up. "You want to see him now?"
Burns also stood. "Yes," he said. "Let's go."
Napier took Burns to the second floor by way of a narrow, dimly lighted staircase that reminded Burns of the ones he'd sometimes had to take in hotels when he got tired of waiting for the elevator. They emerged in a short hall with a wooden door on either side. There was a small window set into each door. At the opposite end of the hall there was a heavy door of iron or steel bars. A man in uniform sat on a stool by the door.
Napier opened the door to the room on their right. "Wait in here. We'll bring the coach down to see you."
Burns entered the room. There was a wooden table about the size of a card table and made of the same blond wood as the furniture in Napier's office. The city must have gotten a carload deal of some kind. There were also three of the straight-backed wooden chairs. Burns pulled one of them over to the table and sat down. The table top was covered with cigarette burns and what Burns took to be typical jail-house graffiti: "If you can't do the time, don't do the crime,"
"Innocent until proved quilty"—Burns particularly liked that one, and wondered if the prisoner who wrote it simply couldn't spell or if he really meant 'quilty'—and "Aryan Brotherhood." Someone had drawn a line through the latter phrase and printed "Texas Mafia" underneath it, along with a blood-dripping dagger. The walls of the room were dirty, but there was nothing written on them. There was nothing else in the room except an institutional-sized can that had once held something like green beans. Burns assumed that it was there to serve as an ashtray or a cuspidor. All in all, the room reminded him of the history lounge, except that the ceiling was much lower.
The door opened again and Coach Thomas came in, followed closely by Boss Napier. "I'll leave you two alone," Napier said. "Just knock on the door when you're through." He went back out, closing the door behind him.
Thomas's face was drawn, and he was wearing some sort of green twill jumpsuit, which Burns assumed was what the well-dressed inmate wore. He sat in a chair at the table with Burns.
"Well, Coach," Burns said, attempting a light tone, "how'd you get into this mess?"
"It's my own fault," Thomas said. "They heard about something I did, and they already suspected me because of the sports thing." His voice was dry and hesitant, a far cry from the confident voice that Burns had usually heard from him.
"What did they hear?" Burns asked. "That business in the faculty dining room? I've already told Napier that there was nothing to that."
Thomas shook his head. "It's not that. At least that's not all of it."
"What, then?" Burns asked.
"I called Elmore, the night before he was killed."
"What's wrong with that?" Burns asked. "Anybody can call someone on the telephone."
"You don't understand," Thomas said. "It was after the pep rally that the students had. I was really fired up by it, you know? That's about the biggest show of school spirit I've seen since I've been at HGC."
The students at HGC weren't known for their support of the school's athletic program, and that was a fact. Many of them preferred to go home on the weekends, or to make the long drive into Fort Worth and Dallas, rather than to stay in Pecan City and see the football team go down in defeat. "I know what you mean," Burns said.
"So I guess I got excited. I called Elmore up and told him what I thought about him. I told him that he couldn't kill the athletic program and that I'd fight him to keep it. I think I told him that there was no way the program wouldn't go on."
"I still don't see anything wrong," Burns said.
Coach Thomas looked at the ceiling and then at the walls. "I think it was at about that point in the conversation when he said something like 'That football program will go on over my dead body.'"
"Oh," Burns said.
"Yeah. And then I may have called him a few names."
"Names?"
"Yeah. Like maybe 'asshole.'"
"I'll go along with that," Burns said.
"I think maybe I called him a pig, too," Thomas said with a sigh.
"Oh!" Burns said.
"Yeah," Thomas said.
Burns leaned back in his chair. Thomas crossed his arms. The two men sat there like that for several minutes, neither looking at the other.
Then Burns leaned forward. "Just a second," he said. "Who told Napier all this? Surely you didn't."
"No," Thomas said. "It wasn't me. I was just fired up by the pep rally, like I said. It was like in a big game—you never know what you might say in the heat of the moment. Anyway, I'd forgotten all about it until Napier showed up at my house and arrested me."
Napier wasn't interested in what Burns had to tell him.
"Well, if you didn't tell him, who did?"
"I figure there was only one person who could've told him," Thomas said. "That kid of Elmore's. What's his name? Wayne? He must've been at home and overheard the phone call. Maybe Elmore even talked to him about it."
"You're probably right," Burns said. "So. What do you want me to do? You must have had a reason for calling."
Thomas looked a little sheepish. "I thought you might talk to Napier; tell him what it was like. Tell him I didn't mean anything by what I said. Maybe you could even talk to that Wayne, tell him how it was. That it was just a way of talking." He thought for a minute. "The guy was a pig, though. Even if he is dead, that doesn't change it."
"I doubt that Napier will listen to me very hard or very long," Burns said. "You have a lawyer?"
"I called Tom Dillon, the guy who represents the school," Thomas said. "I don't know if he's done much criminal work. He came and talked to me. He said he'd have me out pretty quick. They don't have much evidence."
"That's true," Burns said. "In fact, they don't have any evidence, not to speak of. Just that phone call, and the fact that you and Elmore appeared to have a little tussle at the luncheon last week. Dillon's right. You'll be out of here in no time."
Thomas didn't appear to be cheered up. "I don't know," he said. "Whoever reported that 'little tussle' must've made it look pretty much like a real battle."
"That's only one side of it," Burns said. "Don't worry. You'll be home by tonight."
"You really think so?"
"Sure. Meanwhile, I'll do what I can."
"Thanks, Carl. I appreciate that." Thomas put out his huge hand and the two men shook. Burns went and knocked on the door.
"Look," he said. "He threatened Elmore, and Elmore's dead. He called him a pig, and we got a pig snout on the desk. Before that, he knocked Elmore over in the lunch room."
"But what about evidence?" Burns asked. "You've got to have evidence."
"I'm the cop," Napier said. "You're the English teacher. You stick to Bay-o-Wolf and that stuff. I'll catch the bad guys."
"Right," Burns said.
Burns had time for a quick trip to the Taco Bell before going to the funeral. As he washed down his beef tacos with Classic Coke, he realized the irony of the fact that Elmore's funeral was replacing the usual Friday luncheon. Elmore would still be the center of attention. Leave it to him to have the last laugh. So to speak.
Burns parked his car in the lot next to The Church, across the street from Main, and walked up the long, steep cement stairs to the front doors. The Church was a brick building in the style of fifty years ago, which is to say, no style at
all. Three sections of wooden pews led down the sloping aisles to the broad platform on which the pulpit stood. Behind the pulpit was the choir loft, and concealed by a discreet curtain in back of the loft was the baptistry. No longer did the devout find it necessary to be immersed in the probably unsanitary waters of Orchard Creek, as Hartley Gorman had been so long ago.
Today, no one really noticed the pulpit or the choir loft or the baptistry. The front of the church was dominated by a large silver and bronze casket, the top portion of which was thrown back to reveal a satiny white lining formed into cushiony billows. The coffin was heaped with wreaths of flowers—mostly carnations—of all colors, and other wreaths were arranged close by on wire stands. Burns wondered who had sent all the flowers, and he strongly suspected that most of them had been paid for by the college.
Burns was a little early for the service, having hurried through his tacos. He could still vaguely taste the hot sauce. He stood at the back of the church for a minute, looking over the small group of "mourners" who had gathered so far. Mal Tomlin and Earl Fox were there, along with their wives. Joynell Tomlin was slowly chewing a piece of gum. Mary Fox, in contrast to her husband, looked fashionable and demure. She was wearing black, and she even had on a small black hat. Burns could see the blue and white of Fox's Dallas Cowboys windbreaker peeking over the top of the pew.
On the front row of pews, reserved for the family, sat Wayne Elmore. Beside him sat the only other person on the row, President Rogers's wife, Susan, who was rarely seen at any school or social function. She was pale and wan, and there were all sorts of rumors about the state of her health. She was said to be a victim of cancer, or maybe it was lupus, or possibly even beri-beri. No one knew for sure, and certainly no one was going to ask. Equally interesting and entertaining were the numerous rumors that speculated on her real relationship with Rogers, sexual and otherwise. But all conclusions were inconclusive.
Clem was there, and Miss Darling. Even Larry, Darryl, and Darryl were there, sitting together in a pew near the front. Burns walked down the aisle and sat by Earl Fox.
They all sat in silence—certainly no one was crying—and listened to the organist play sad hymns about crossing Jordan and answering roll calls Up Yonder and feasting on the manna from a bountiful supply. From where he sat, Burns could see Elmore's face where the undertaker had him displayed in the coffin. Elmore didn't seem to be having a better time than anyone else.
Eventually, Rogers walked out onto the platform and stepped behind the pulpit. He talked about being born to trouble and sparks flying upward and the sun also arising. Burns recalled reading somewhere that the minister at Hemingway's funeral had somehow managed to omit those words when reading from Ecclesiastes. He hoped that the sun wouldn't arise on anyone else exactly like Elmore, at least not at HGC.
When it was over, Burns slipped back down the aisle, avoiding the unctuous undertaker who wanted him to go by and view the body. Burns had seen more of Elmore than he cared to.
Outside the church, Burns stood in the dim November sun and felt the chill creeping past his clothes. He walked over to Main and climbed the stairs to the history lounge. He turned on the light, glancing up at the bare bulb dangling down. Fox showed up fairly soon, having sent his wife on home, and they had a smoke. Bel-Air this time. Fox was thinking of saving the coupons. Neither man had much to say. Burns told Fox about Thomas, and Fox swore loudly (after checking to make sure that the door was solidly shut). Then they went home. They didn't like funerals.
Chapter 14
On Saturday, Burns read and worked haphazardly on one of his lists, the one that was composed of the ten best rock and roll songs recorded before 1960. It was a particularly troublesome list, because he could never arrive at an adequate definition of rock and roll. He was never sure whether to include a song by Big Joe Turner or not. But if he didn't, could Bill Haley and the Comets have their cover version included? And should ballads be on there? They were certainly aimed at a rock and roll audience, but could The Platters really be called a rock and roll group?
Besides, limiting the list to only ten songs was ridiculous. Burns knew that he wanted "I Wonder Why," by Dion and the Belmonts, on any version of the list, but what about Buddy Holly? Probably nearly any song that Holly ever recorded belonged on the list, so how could Burns settle for one or two? Not to mention the problem caused by Elvis Presley, though Burns was more and more convinced that Holly had more good songs.
Worrying about such completely trivial matters kept Burns's mind off events at HGC for quite a few hours. He was interrupted only once, by a call from Coach Thomas. "I'm out," Thomas said. "You were right."
"I told you not to worry," Burns said.
"I know," Thomas said, "but that Napier is still out to get me. I can tell."
"Don't worry about it," Burns said. "He'll settle on someone else."
"I hope so," Thomas said.
After the call, Burns found it hard to get his mind back on his list, so he got out a box of old 45 rpm records and listened to The Falcons doing "You're So Fine" and The Fiestas singing "So Fine," trying to decide if either one or both should go on the list. It didn't help much.
On Sunday, Burns slept late and then watched a meaningless and amateurish football game between the Houston Oilers and the Indianapolis Colts. He was glad he wasn't trying to make a list of the most inept teams in the NFL. It would be a hard choice.
After the game he puttered around in his kitchen and fixed himself some bacon and scrambled eggs, which he ate with picante sauce. The taste of the sauce reminded him vaguely of the meal at the Taco Bell, which reminded him of the funeral. There was something about all the things that he had seen and done, heard and said, since Elmore's death that was nagging at him, but he couldn't identify it.
He finished his bacon and eggs, cleaned up the kitchen, washed the frying pan and his dishes, wiped off the table, and sat on his couch to think. He was a student of literature, or at least he liked to think of himself as one, and as such he was trained to look for patterns in a story, novel, or poem. Once he found a meaningful pattern he could build a logical case for an interpretation of the work.
Life, of course, wasn't like a story, but surely there should be some pattern in the events of the past few days, some pattern that would allow him to make sense of things. He was only a wimpy English teacher, not a cop, but he could reason. He could even remember people's names. Surely there was something . . .
But there wasn't.
At least there was nothing really solid. There was one possibility, but it was something that was only a possibility. Something that Napier had overlooked, as usual. But Burns had overlooked it, too, and he was the one who should have thought of it. Napier had no real way of knowing.
It wasn't important enough to worry about. He could ask Bunni in the morning. He looked on his bookshelves for an old Raymond Chandler novel and went to bed to read.
On Monday morning, Burns went around to Bunni's desk in the long room in front of Larry, Darryl and Darryl's offices. She was sitting there reading her assignment for Burns's ten o'clock class.
Bunni looked up from the text. "Hi, Dr. Burns," she said. "Good morning, Bunni. There's something I've been meaning to ask you," he said.
Bunni closed the book, marking the place with her finger. "I hope I didn't get you in trouble with the police." There was a look of real concern in her blue eyes.
"Not a bit," Burns said. "This has to do with when you were picketing Dean Elmore's office."
"Oh," Bunni said, slumping in her chair.
"I know you feel bad about that," Burns said. "But you were doing something you believed in. You had no idea that anyone would kill Elmore."
Bunni didn't say anything.
Burns went on. "I was just wondering. You didn't mention it, but were you by any chance still picketing on Tuesday before assembly?"
Bunni removed her finger from the book and put the book on top of a black looseleaf notebook. "Yes," she said. "We
were."
"I thought you might have been," Burns said. "I guess you waited until nearly time for assembly to begin before you left."
"We thought he might come out and see the signs," Bunni said. "But he didn't."
Burns didn't think it would be tactful to mention that Elmore, being dead, would have had a great deal of difficulty getting out of the building to see the picket signs.
"Anyway," Bunni said, "we waited till we thought everybody was out, and then we went on to assembly."
"I wondered if you happened to notice anyone go into the building, anyone that you didn't see come out," Burns said.
"Gosh, Dr. Burns, that was a long time ago," Bunni said. "We weren't really looking to see who went in."
"Just think about it for a minute," Burns said. "Maybe something will come to you."
Bunni thought about it. "You know," she said, "I did notice somebody, now that you mention it. I thought it was pretty strange for her to be going in the Administration Building. I don't think I've ever seen her outside of this building."
"I knew you could remember," Burns said. "Who was it?"
"It was Miss Darling."
"Miss Darling?"
"That's right. George and I have wondered sometimes how she even makes it up these stairs once a day, but I guess she had to do it twice that day, didn't she?"
"I guess she did," Burns said. He was thinking of sitting in Miss Darling's office the day of the murder. He was thinking about moving her purse, and about how heavy it had felt. As heavy as if it had been concealing a cut-glass paper-clip holder.
"Well, thanks, Bunni," Burns said. He started back to his own office.
"That's all you wanted to know?"
"That's all," Burns said, wondering what Philip Marlowe would do. He went back to his office and got ready for his American lit class.
After class, Burns went down to the history lounge. Fox was already there, tapping Bel-Air ashes into a Sprite can. He pulled the pack out of his pocket and handed it to Burns. "Some funeral, huh?" he said as Burns lit up.