Cold Dish wl-1

by Craig Johnson

  She was watching me like a science experiment. “You look tired.” I sighed. “Yep, well… it’s truly all my worst nightmares come to life.” We sat there for a moment; “I’m 0 for 2.” I looked at her for a while and then got up, trying not to tread on her feet, and sidestepped to the door. “You don’t need me; Vic can be the primary again. You got ballistics stuff here in the Mystery Machine?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve got a rifle out in my truck that needs to be tested; I’ll leave it with Vic.”

  “Where did this one come from?”

  I paused, with my hand on the door handle. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Walt?”

  I waited. “Yep?”

  “You’re not being punished for your sins.”

  The air outside felt good, and I started getting just a breath of my second wind. I could smell the lodgepole pines above everything else, a sharp smell that really doesn’t translate to air fresheners and cleaning products. It was also the altitude; the air just seemed to pull in a little more freely above ten thousand feet. I took a quick scope around, using the steps as a lookout, and called Vic over. “I’ve got another rifle in my truck that needs to be tested, and they’ve got facilities in the trailer.”

  She caught up, and we walked along. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m headed down. I’ll get things set up at the office, then I’ll be back.” I opened the door and took the Cheyenne Death Rifle from the seat of my truck and handed it to her.

  She held it, carefully studying the sheath, then tightened her lips and looked up at me. “Henry?”

  “Lonnie, by way of Henry.”

  She slowly exhaled and then pulled the rifle out, holding it up in the morning light. “Fuck me running through the forest.”

  “We already discussed that.”

  She ignored me and continued. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about this.”

  “That seems to be the general response to this particular weapon.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s haunted. There are supposed to be Old Cheyenne hanging around the thing looking for people to abduct and take back to the Camp of the Dead.”

  She studied it some more. “Cool.”

  She went off to my truck, and I walked over to the back of one of the DCI Suburbans, where Ferg and Al Monroe were having an animated conversation concerning the relative advantages of the Bitch Creek Nymph over the Number Sixteen Elk Hair Cadis. I always wondered about men who spent their time trying to anticipate and know a fish in a world where man’s knowledge of each other could only be called scarce. It just seemed to be gratuitously ignorant for any man to think that he could think like a fish. Then there was the high deceit of the artificial fly; subtlety, guile, and sly deception created and instilled only to lure a cautious and tentative fish to its death. They were as bad as drug fiends, living in their shadowy world of aquatic intrigue.

  I sometimes fly-fished, but it was catch and release, and I always brought a book. “Ferg, have you looked at the equipment he was carrying?”

  “Yep.” He looked at Al for confirmation, and they nodded somberly to each other. “Yellow and Royal Humpies, Parachute Adams, Light Cahills, and a couple of wet flies, mostly Montana Stones.”

  “Nothing like a Royal Humpie. Any ideas on where George might have gone?”

  “Some.” I waited. “Meadowlark, West Tensleep Creek, Medicine Lodge, Crazy Woman, head of the Clear, maybe even north fork of the Powder.”

  “Well, that should narrow it down to about 189,000 acres. How long do you think it’ll take you?”

  Dejectedly, he looked at the skies west of us. “A little while.. ”

  I followed his gaze to the dark lines of clouds converging across the Big Horn basin and the Wind River Range. This was the one that was going to signify that autumn was over. If you lived here long enough, you could sense them coming. The few leaves left on the aspens quaked, and you could almost feel the barometric undertow as the storm gathered momentum. The clouds looked flat and mean, and they stretched into the distance; it made my eyes hurt. I was having enough trouble operating a homicide investigation without a raging blizzard at ten thousand feet. As he started to go, I leaned over to him. “You got a rifle in your truck?”

  He stopped dead and looked at me. “What?”

  I glanced over at Al as he suddenly found DCI’s proceedings of great interest. “Do you have a rifle in your truck?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Get Vic’s. 243. Just because we don’t know where George Esper is, doesn’t mean somebody else doesn’t.”

  The drive down the mountain wasn’t too bad; the only place where there was ice was on the flats, where the wind had continually applied a fresh coat of melting snow. Any other time, swooping over the gentle hills of the high meadow was a mind-freeing experience, but my mind snagged on the teepee signs for the campgrounds in the Bighorn National Forest. Henry was right, there had been no Indians on the jury.

  On Wednesday, the jury had come in dressed up and, in the back hallways, we all thought that after eight days of deliberation we were close to a verdict. I still remember the look on all of our faces when the red light went on. The family members took their seats in the first three rows, quietly, like it was church, as if how little noise they made would have an affect on their loved ones’ fate: the Espers, the Pritchards, and Mrs. Keller in the front row, Jim Keller never attending; Lonnie Little Bird in the aisle with his trusting smile, the chrome on his wheelchair seeming shiny and out of place. Then there were the defendants, three of them smirking and Bryan Keller looking sad.

  “Please rise.” Vern’s voice was steady and carried the patrician quality that resonated that fervent prayer, that desperate plea for justice. Whose justice we were about to find out. Bryan closed his eyes, Jacob and George remained emotionless, and Cody glared. Cody Pritchard was found guilty of two counts of first-degree aggravated sexual assault; one count was for assaulting a mentally defective woman, and the other was for using force or coercion in that assault. He was also found guilty of conspiracy in the second degree. Jacob Esper, same verdict. George Esper was found guilty of one count of aggravated sexual assault in the second degree and was guilty of second-degree conspiracy. Bryan Keller was acquitted of the more serious charges but was found guilty of second-degree conspiracy.

  After Vern was through reading the verdict, Cody leaned over to Jacob and whispered something; they both laughed. I felt like going over there. I made a mental note to keep a closer eye on them from then on and, if possible, to take a personal interest in their miseries. Sentencing was set for three weeks. All four were released with nominal bail and, after two years of freedom following their crime, they were set free again.

  When I made the final sweep of the now closed courtroom, there was only one person left. “Quite a show. Mm, hmm, yes. It is so.”

  I stood there in my cotton-poly-blend uniform, looked past him at the cheap paneling on the walls, and felt the fraud of human institutions. His eyes wouldn’t let me go, wouldn’t let me usher him out and get it all over with, so I went and sat on the armrest of the chair in front of him. He smiled, looking through the thick lenses in his glasses, and patted my leg. “Long day?”

  I smiled back. “Yep.”

  He looked around, his hand remaining on my leg. “Doesn’t take long for everybody to get out of here, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Mm. Not like on the television.”

  “Is there somebody here to help you, Lonnie?”

  “Oh, yes. Arbutus has gone to get the car.”

  “Do you need help getting down?”

  “Oh, no. I use the elevator.” We sat there in silence, as the radiators ticked and groaned. His eyes drifted down to the gun that also rested on my leg. “Those boys?” I waited. “They went home?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yep, Lonnie. They did.”

  His eyes remained on my gun. “You will g
o and get them?”

  I paused. “They’ll be right back here in three weeks to be sentenced. That’s when Vern decides what will happen to them now that they are guilty.”

  His eyes came up, and he looked profound. “That judge, yes, he looks like Ronald Colman. Mm, hmm. It is so.”

  By the time I reached the office, I had worked myself into a righteous rage, and I wheeled into the parking lot, the Bullet sliding to a stop. My emotional state was not improved when I saw Turk’s car sitting next to the door. He came out of the office as I got out of the truck, his thumbs hitched in his gun belt as he came down the steps. I noticed how big he was, how young. “Damn, you keep drivin’ like that, and I’m gonna have to…”

  He didn’t see it coming, nobody would have. He was used to my irascible moods and just thought he had caught the sheriff at a bad time. He had. I brought my hand up in a full-reach swipe that caught the side of his head and propelled it face first into the quarter panel of the Thunder Chicken, as my right boot scooped his feet out from under him. The impact was thunderous on the hollow flank of the car, and the dent it left was substantial. He didn’t get up but lay there beside the rear wheel, a small pool of blood spreading from the side of his downturned face.

  I stepped over his legs and rolled him to one side, brushing away his hat and grabbing his shirtfront, pulling his face up close to mine. “If you ever harm a prisoner in my jail again…” But he wasn’t listening, he was out. I held his head there for a moment and then gently laid it down on the concrete. I felt sick. It was from the adrenaline, or at least I blamed it on that. It always hit me afterwards. I would have to walk it off. I became aware of some movement behind me as I stood and stepped away and continued up the steps and into my office. Whoever it was that had walked up had evidently decided that whatever they had to do with me wasn’t that important.

  The door to the office was open when I got there. Ruby held the knob with her other hand over her heart, her eyes wider than I had ever seen them. “Oh, my Lord…”

  I breezed past her into the reception area and almost collided with Lucian. He teetered back and nearly fell as I caught him and stood him upright. I figured a good offense was the best defense. “You got something to say?”

  His face broke into a broad grin. “Damn, what a lick!”

  I left him there and continued down the hallway, through the door, and into the jail’s holding cells. I slammed the door back, stormed through the open cubicle, and sat myself on one of the bunks, my back thumping against the wall as I clutched my shaking hands together and set my jaw. I concentrated on my hands, willing them to stop; it took a while. My breathing was returning to normal, and the flushed feeling was starting to fade. I licked my lips and exhaled, trying to push the rest of the adrenaline through my flooded blood stream. I hated it, I hated seeing it, I hated hearing about it, and I hated doing it. I brought my head up to find a terrified Bryan Keller looking at me from the other bunk. I wasn’t quite sure what to say. He was crouched in the corner with his legs pulled up and his arms wrapped around them; only his eyes were visible over the kneecaps.

  We listened as the commotion from the reception area carried down the hallway and bounced off the masonry walls. I had no idea you could hear everything so well from the cells. The front door was closed, but there was a scooting of chairs and a murmuring of voices. You could hear Lucian’s voice above the others, “Bring ’im on in here, Ladies Wear…” More murmuring and voices, “How you like them apples, you little son of a bitch? You try and get up, and I’ll kick your ass so far…” It trailed off with the roaring in my ears. It was like being underwater and, for a few moments, I floated there, letting the sinking feeling in the middle of my shoulders wash over me. I was tired.

  A while later, Henry peered around the divider. His hair hung down, and his face looked at me sideways.

  I took off my hat and placed it on the bunk beside me, running my hands over my face. “What?” It would appear that not all the adrenaline was gone.

  “Nothing.”

  I sat there for a moment. “He all right?”

  He stepped around the divider and ducked his head to look through the bars. “He will never play the violin with his nose again, if that is what you mean.”

  “Better call the EMTs.”

  “He is already gone; Ruby has taken him to the hospital. It seemed to be the best thing, since his uncle would not stop kicking him.”

  I waited. “You think I overreacted?”

  He shook his head in mock earnest. “Oh, no. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable response to someone parking in your spot.” He wandered over to the doorway of the cell. “How about we have breakfast?” He glanced down at Bryan. “How about you?” To my relief, Bryan declined, and we slipped out the back way. “Interesting office management skills, kind of a ‘violence is not the answer so I’m going to beat the shit out of you’ philosophy.”

  I was looking at the sky; still nothing, but I could feel the coming storm. My eyes continued up the South Pass to the snow above the tree line; I was looking for George Esper.

  “Kind of like Indian foreplay.”

  He had to be up there, somewhere.

  “What do ten Indian women with black eyes have in common?”

  The fishing flies were the key and, if Ferg could connect the very specific lures to very specific areas, we might have a chance.

  “They just won’t listen.”

  If George knew about the weather, would he come down? Would he go looking for his brother?

  “How was your date last night?”

  The more time went by without finding him, the more likely it was that he was dead. I would have to deputize one of Ferg’s buddies and send him out to sit at the Esper place to see if anybody was going to show up.

  “You did not let her touch the wine, did you?”

  And what the hell was going on in Longmont? I could have driven down there and looked for them myself by now. At least Bryan was safe, but I needed to talk with his father. There was something there, maybe.

  “By the way, I got word on Artie Small Song.”

  I stopped. “What?”

  “I thought that might get your attention.” He was smiling and shaking his head. “I got a call from his mother, and she thought that we might want to know that Artie has been in Yellowstone County Jail, up in Billings, since Saturday.”

  That narrowed the field. “Charge?”

  “Carrying an unregistered concealed weapon without a permit.”

  I nodded to Dorothy when we threaded our way through the three or four locals sitting at the counter, and we took seats on the end stools toward the back. They had looked up, and I didn’t smile. “So, what’re you doing following me around?”

  “I thought you would be interested in Artie, and I have information about the feather.” He propped his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Something has happened?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Your manner is curt and slightly agitated.”

  “Jacob Esper is dead.” I watched him very carefully, but there was no visible response.

  “That answers some of your questions.”

  “You don’t seem very upset.”

  “I am not. Should I be?”

  I looked at him for a moment. “No, I suppose not.” Dorothy brought over some coffee and a couple of menus.

  She was looking at my winter gear, and she smiled. “The game’s afoot?”

  I tossed the menu back to her. “The usual.” She raised an eyebrow and looked at Henry.

  “I will have what he is having.”

  The other eyebrow rose. “He doesn’t know what he’s having.”

  “I will have it anyway.”

  She looked at the both of us, shrugged, and headed back to the grill.

  “Tell me about the feather.”

  He sat back up straight, took a sip of his coffee, and made me wait, finally turning back and looking me in the eye. “Wanda Rea
l Wolf. She used to head up the Cheyenne Artist’s Co-Op.”

  “The one that went out of business?”

  “Yes. It is much easier to get Indians to work together than artists.”

  “They’re her feathers?”

  “Feathers, plural?” I set my jaw and nodded, and he looked at me for a while. “Interesting. You have it with you?” I took the feather from my jacket and handed it to him. He turned the plastic bag over in the light from the windows and studied the contents. “It too could be Wanda’s.”

  “I don’t suppose Wanda keeps detailed records of her feather sales?”

  He sat it down between us and took another sip of his coffee. “Worse than that, she does not sell them separately, only on objects she and her immediate family make.”

  “Like?”

  “Dream catchers, flutes, pipes, dance headdresses, items like that.”

  “I don’t suppose she has a limited clientele?”

  “High-end tourist shops, all over the country.”

  “Great. So these things could be pulled off anything?”

  “Yes. I asked her if there was any way of finding the location or age of the pieces, but she said no.”

  I started to take another sip of my coffee, but the smell informed me that I had had enough. “Any way to tell what pieces the feathers could have come off of?”

  “She said that small pinholes at the base of the quill probably meant that they came off dream catchers or pipes, nontraditional usage.” He caught me looking at the feather between us. “Both have such holes. I am afraid that does not narrow the field much.”

  “No.” I took the feather and stuffed it back in my jacket.

  He waited quietly. “There is more?”

  I weighed my options and decided to clear the air. “How come you were late going running yesterday?”

  He sat his coffee cup down, and a mischievous glint shaded his eyes. “I was out shooting white boys.”

  “I’m serious.”