A Killing at Cotton Hill

by Terry Shames

  My reputation as a lawman is built on an incident that happened twenty or more years ago. In my third term as police chief, I got bored and figured it was time to give it up. Jarrett Creek isn’t exactly a hotbed of crime. Mostly it’s arresting youngsters who’ve gotten drunk and rowdy after the homecoming game, or breaking up a knife fight down at the Two Dog on the outskirts of town. I was anticipating turning the reins over to somebody else and going into business with a local landman, when all hell broke loose. Somebody robbed our little state bank, shot the teller, then went over to the bank president’s house and killed him. Overnight we had reporters here from Houston and San Antonio, and the town was in an uproar.

  On the spot to avoid having the Jarrett Creek police look like a pack of clowns, I managed to put together a few ideas and figured out who was responsible for the mayhem. There was a little drama involved when I cornered the suspect and had to talk him out of shooting a girl he’d taken hostage. It all came out okay, but the town insisted that I go one more round as chief, which meant I missed out on the business opportunity. That worked out for the best, though, because my prospective partner had a heart attack a year later, and it turned out his affairs were in a mess.

  I’ve been sitting in Jenny’s office for twenty minutes staring at the wall, and now I pay attention to a nice little print hanging there. I wonder if she knows anything about the artist, which brings me back to Greg. Damn, I don’t even know the boy’s last name. So maybe that’s where I should start, going over to the jail and spending a few minutes getting to know him a little better. Just because he’s an artist doesn’t mean he couldn’t be a killer, too.

  I go on down to the Jarrett Creek city police station, figuring Rodell won’t have gotten around to questioning Greg. Police headquarters is in a brick building about as big as a gas station. Besides Rodell, there are two full-time and two part-time cops. One of the full-timers, James Harley Krueger, is on duty behind the desk today. He’s a short man with a stray-dog face and a personality to match. James Harley’s dad is the school principal and almost as ignorant as his son. How James Harley got through police training is a mystery.

  “Hey, Chief Craddock, what can I do for you?”

  “Rodell around?”

  His eyes go all shifty. “He’s gone on an errand.”

  The errand Rodell has gone off on is drinking, either at the Two Dog or Carl White’s place. It aggravates me that he’s left that boy to collect a case of nerves and allowed Dora Lee’s killer to take his sweet time getting out of town.

  “Can I talk to the boy you’ve got in custody?”

  James Harley scratches his chin. “I don’t know if anybody’s supposed to go in there.”

  I put my hands on the desk and lean over him. “James Harley, you know I was chief of police for sixteen years, don’t you?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Well, I’m here to tell you there’s no law against letting a citizen have access to somebody in custody. Unless you think I’m going to break him out of jail.”

  “Aw, Chief Craddock, you know I don’t think that.” He stands up and puts his hat on, which strikes me as perverse, seeing that we’re just walking into the next room. “I’ll take you back there.”

  We walk back where two cells are located. One of them is empty. The boy is lying on a bunk in the other one. Since the building is only a few years old, you’d think it would be clean and cool. But the air-conditioning that has it about 60 degrees up front doesn’t reach back here, where it feels about 85 degrees. It smells like old piss, and the walls are covered with graffiti of the kind you’d expect in a small town jail—pictures of anatomy and words to describe it. The boy sits up as soon as he sees me.

  I wait for James Harley to open the cell, but he stands there, looking like a spooked cow.

  “Will you open the door so I can go in there and talk to the prisoner?”

  “I got to get the keys,” he says and ambles off to the front.

  “You doing okay?” I ask the boy.

  He slaps at a mosquito on the back of his neck. He’s still wearing the clothes he was painting in, and they’re all covered with pastel dust. Rodell didn’t even give him a chance to clean up. “I wish they’d just come and ask me what they need to ask.”

  James Harley comes back and lets me into the cell. I tell him I don’t need him hanging around. By now he’s decided I can boss him around, so he gets on back to the front office, presumably to resume his business of staring out the front window.

  “We need to talk,” I say, sitting down on the bunk next to Greg.

  He shoves his hands under his thighs as if to keep them still. There’s a film of sweat over his face and I can feel the damp collecting on my upper lip. Mosquitoes are humming all around us.

  “First of all, I’m embarrassed to say I don’t remember your last name.”

  “Marcus.”

  “Greg Marcus. Greg, talk to me about your family. Are your dad’s folks still alive? Any aunts and uncles?”

  It takes him a few seconds to get started talking. He tells me he has family down in Harlingen.

  “Give me a few details.”

  He sighs. “My daddy’s folks still live on their old place down there, but my grandma has Parkinson’s, and my Aunt Patsy says she thinks they’re going to have to move into town with her.” He gives a little snort, the first time I’ve seen anything but his gloomy side.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I don’t see how that’s going to work out. My aunt and uncle are real religious and have about a hundred kids, seems like. My granddad likes his whiskey, and I don’t think Patsy’s going to put up with that.”

  “You just have the one aunt?”

  “On my daddy’s side, yes. But I guess my mamma had a sister I never met who moved to California when she was eighteen.” He’s not looking at me as he recounts all this information.

  “Her name is Caroline,” I tell him. I haven’t heard a word about her in twenty-five years. She broke Dora Lee’s heart when she took off to California barely out of high school. After a while Dora Lee stopped talking about her. The important thing now is that somebody needs to find out where she is and notify her of what happened.

  “Did your grandma ever tell you anything about her?”

  The boy turns his head to look at me. “Only way I even knew I had an aunt was because Grandma told me a few weeks back. She said she got a letter from her.” He blinks and turns his gaze back to the dingy wall opposite us.

  “Well, son, don’t hold out on me. What did the letter say?”

  The boy shakes his head. “She didn’t tell me. But I don’t think she was too happy about it. She was snappish for the next couple of days after she got it.”

  I’m getting my comeuppance. I thought I knew a lot about Dora Lee, but she didn’t tell me about the letter or about her dog dying. Seems like relying on me like she did, she would have said something about both things. I guess she had her secret side, like everybody else.

  “I take it after your folks died there was never any talk about you going to live with your aunt and uncle in Harlingen.”

  “No, Grandma said she was glad to have me, and I’d been there so much it was like home number two.”

  I remember that when Greg was born, Dora Lee doted on him like he was the first and best child to ever come along.

  “You and your grandma ever have words?”

  He shoots a glance my way, then down at the floor. “Every now and then. But mostly we did okay.”

  “Any problems lately?”

  He scratches the back of his neck and shifts around on the cot. “Not problems, exactly. Or I should say one problem in particular. I was thinking I ought to move to Houston so I could find me a job and take some arts classes. She didn’t like the idea. I knew she’d be lonesome without me, but . . .”

  “But you felt like you needed to stretch your wings.”

  “It wasn’t like I wasn’t grateful for everything she’s do
ne for me. I told her I wouldn’t be that far away, and I’d come out to visit. She told me she’d think about selling if she knew where to go, but I didn’t want her to do that. I love the farm.”

  “Speaking of that, do you know if your grandma had a will?”

  He shakes his head. “She tried to bring it up once or twice, but I didn’t like talking about it. Her dying, I mean. I guess I was a fool.”

  “Now, don’t talk that way. Nobody wants to dwell on the people they love dying. It’s only natural with what you went through with your folks being killed untimely, you’d be shy of thinking on it.”

  That’s two things that need to be done—contact Caroline, and find out whether Dora Lee had a will.

  Greg springs up and starts to pace, running his hands back and forth across his head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. I sure can’t keep up the farm, but I hate to let it go.”

  “You just hang on,” I say. “Let’s take your situation one step at a time. We don’t know one another, but I was a good friend to your grandma. I’m going to do what I can to help you out. First thing, we’ve got to get you out of here. And then I think it might be good if you came to stay at my place for a few days.”

  He stops in front of me, stubborn written all over his face. “I don’t see how I can do that. I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got to get back to my cabin.”

  I nod, knowing he’s worried about his painting. “What would you think about me staying out at Dora Lee’s for a few days?”

  He paces to the little barred window that looks out onto the parking lot. “I don’t want to put you out. I don’t mind being out there by myself.”

  It occurs to me that he doesn’t seem worried that whoever killed his grandma will come back for him. Which could mean he knows who did it. Or it could just mean he’s young and doesn’t think anything could happen to him. “You won’t be putting me out. I consider it a favor to your grandma.”

  He nods. I can see he’s in better shape than when I got here.

  “Good, that’s settled. I’m going to go looking for Rodell and see if I can’t talk him into releasing you. Now be prepared. You may have to stay here tonight if I can’t find Rodell. But I’ll have you out tomorrow at the latest.” The mosquito finally lands on my arm, and I nail him. “Meanwhile, what you can do is be thinking over the last few days. Try to remember if anything unusual happened. Even the smallest little thing.”

  The Two Dog is about as low a dive as you’ll find. Fifteen feet outside the city limits, it looks like it was built out of rotten lumber that someone discarded after tearing down the oldest house in town, which is exactly what happened. The interior is strung with blue lights behind the bar. It has a dance floor big enough for two couples and an old-fashioned jukebox with tunes that represent the worst of fifties’ and sixties’ country and rock. I don’t know whether Oscar can’t afford to update the music or if he’s just stuck in time.

  When I walk in there’s a version of “Mr. Sandman” playing by girls who can’t carry a tune. Since the place is only about ten feet by twelve feet, with four stools and a bar the length of my kitchen table, I can see pretty quickly that Rodell isn’t here. Oscar says he hasn’t seen Rodell and tells me he’ll let him know I’m looking for him if he comes by.

  Next stop is Carl White’s pasture across the tracks. Carl built a shack out there to get away from his wife. Apparently it doesn’t bother her one bit that Carl goes out there most afternoons, plus he heads out to the shack first thing Saturday morning and doesn’t come home until suppertime on Sunday. Sure enough when I drive down the dirt road leading to the shack, there’s Rodell’s police car parked alongside Carl’s truck.

  The two of them are sitting out behind the shack in the shade, boots propped up on a rickety old table. The table holds enough empty beer bottles to make up a case between them. I can see right away from the little hog eyes that Rodell swivels my way that he’s so soused that he’s probably completely forgotten about the boy.

  Carl offers me a beer, and I accept it. The business I’ve come to discuss will go smoother if I start out being sociable. I ask Carl if he’s done any fishing lately and he says he hasn’t. We toss around a few ideas about the chances of the high school football team this year, conversing without the benefit of Rodell’s input. He seems to be biding his time. Or maybe he’s too drunk to string words together.

  I test the waters: “Rodell, why in God’s name have you got Dora Lee’s boy locked up? You know he wouldn’t hurt her.”

  Carl rears back and blinks at Rodell as if this is the first he’s heard anything about the boy.

  “I don’t know nothing of the kind.” Rodell enunciates his words as if they might slip away from him.

  “I’ll tell you what. I’d appreciate it if you’d release him to my custody. I’ll see to it he stays put while you get your ducks in a row for the district attorney.”

  He works his mouth around a little, keeping his eyes on his bottle of beer. I expect it hadn’t occurred to him that his case has to pass muster with the DA. Although the DA isn’t fond of defendants, he’s a stickler for details, and not a relative of Rodell’s. A slow smile sneaks up on his face. “I’ll let him sit in the jail for a couple of days and he might be ready to tell me the truth about what happened.”

  The easy way didn’t work. “I hadn’t wanted to tell you this,” I say, “but I’m hiring Jenny Sandstone to help the boy out.”

  “The hell you are!”

  “I am. And as soon as she gets back from Bryan today, she’s going over to Bobtail and get a judge to set bail so I can pull him out of that stink house jail.”

  “The hell . . .”

  “So you can save us some trouble and just let him out now.” Rodell’s head is kind of hanging down like it’s too heavy for his neck. I lean my head down so I can look up at him. “What do you say?”

  “I say you’re an interferin’ son of a bitch.”

  I look over at Carl to see if I can get a little support, but he’s concentrating on staring off into the weeds and smoking a cigarette. I doubt he’s kept up with the conversation.

  “Carl, thanks for the beer. I’ll be on my way. Take it easy, Rodell.”

  When I get back to Jenny’s office it’s almost four o’clock. I’m itchy because I want to be sure we have time to get a judge if it’s necessary. I don’t want Greg having to stay in the jail overnight. Some boys it would just roll off their backs, but I get the feeling it would be hard on him.

  There’s a chair down the hall outside somebody’s office, so I haul it to Jenny’s door and sit down. While I wait for her to show up, I finally have a minute to pay some mind to what happened to Dora Lee. And my part in it. Even though it makes me feel bad, I force myself to recall the details of our conversation last night. I don’t know what time she called, but it wasn’t quite dark, so I probably hadn’t been asleep long. Let’s call it nine thirty. She asked if she was disturbing me and I said not at all. Thinking back on it, I’m hoping I didn’t sound impatient with her. I’d hate to think that the last friend she talked to would have brushed her off. Assuming I was the last person she called.

  Anyway, she said, “I know you think I’m crazy, and I’m ashamed to be disturbing you for it, but whoever was spying on me a couple of weeks back is outside again. He’s sitting in his car out there on the road.”

  “You don’t have any idea who it is or what they want?”

  “No, and it scares me.

  “Have you seen him up close?”

  “Just the car. It’s a newish car, kind of fancy.”

  Thinking about that now, I believe that was the first time she’d described a concrete detail about a car.

  “Dora Lee, can you think of any reason why someone would want to spy on you?” I said.

  “Now you say that, it sounds silly. But I just have this bad feeling.”

  And all the time she was talking I was thinking she was just imagining things, riled up because her grand
son was talking about moving to Houston so he could get a job, and she’d be by herself out there again.

  Jenny Sandstone rescues me from my low moment. She comes booming down the short hallway. “Have you put any thought to what I said?”

  “You don’t make a lot of small talk, do you?” I say.

  She unlocks the door and waves me inside. “I don’t see the point. I’m busy.”

  We sit down and she takes her shoes off with a groan. I tell her about my talk with the boy and my idea about staying out at Dora Lee’s place. “I don’t want Rodell to know I’m snooping around, and that way I can do it without him knowing.”

  “See? That’s why I want you to take charge of this investigation. Rodell never would have thought of something that slick. And there’s no way in hell he’ll ever catch who did this.”

  “I know you’re right. Any chance of getting that boy out of jail tonight?”

  She dials a number and asks for Judge Herrera. “It’s important,” she says. She tells whoever she’s talking to that she’ll wait and in a minute the judge comes on the phone and they talk.

  I’m impressed with Jenny’s combination of sweet talk and legalese. I can tell by her end of the conversation that the judge knows that Rodell is incompetent and will keep the boy in jail just for the hell of it. She tells him I’m willing to put up the bail if it comes to that. She listens a little more, then hangs up and says, “Let’s get on over to the jail and spring that boy.”

  “What about me paying for the bail?”

  “Judge Herrera said if he hasn’t been arrested, we don’t need bail. But there’s no reason Rodell has to know that. We’ll just tell him the judge is letting the boy out. Judge Herrera says he trusts you.”

  I’ve never even met the man, but a benefit of living in a sparsely populated area is that your reputation means something. I’m as good as my word, and I guess he knows it.

  Even though I know Greg is itching to get back home, I tell him I have to do a couple of things at my place before we go out to Dora Lee’s. I need to pack my clothes and call Truly Bennett and ask him if he’ll keep an eye on my cows while I’m gone. You have to check on cows often in high summer, because they can get themselves into the damnedest trouble with boggy ground or rattlesnakes. But I also have another reason for wanting to get Greg to my house.