The Sixth Commandment

by Lawrence Sanders

  The man was a force. It went out in waves, affecting people he didn’t even know. Joan Powell, for example. Thorndecker was the reason I had come to Coburn. Coburn was changing the way I felt about Joan Powell. Her life might be turned around, or at least altered, by the influence of a man she had never met.

  I wondered if all life was like this: a series of interlocking concentric circles, everything connected to everything else in some mad scheme that the greatest computer in the world would digest and then type out on its TV monitor: “Insufficient data.”

  It was a humbling thought, that we are all pushed and pulled by influences that we are not even aware of. Life is not a bowl of cherries. Life is a bowl of linguine with clam sauce, everything intertangled and slithery. No end to it.

  Maybe that was the job of the investigators. We’re the guys with the fork and the soup spoon, lifting high a tangle of the strands, twirling fork tines in the bowl of the spoon, and producing a neat, palatable ball.

  It made me hungry just to think of it.

  The Coburn Civic Building looked like it had shrunk in the rain. I didn’t expect bustling activity on a Sunday afternoon, but I thought someone would be on duty in the city hall, minding the store. I finally found a few real, live human beings by peering through the dirty glass window in the wide door of the firehouse. Inside, four guys in coveralls sat around a wooden table playing cards. I would have bet my last kopeck it was pinochle. I also got a view of their equipment: an antique pumper and a hose truck that looked like a converted Eskimo Pie van. Neither vehicle looked especially clean.

  I walked around the building to the police station in the rear. It was open, desolate, deserted. It smelled like every police station in the world: an awful amalgam of eye-stinging disinfectant, vintage urine, mold, dust, vomit, and several other odors of interest only to a pathologist.

  There was a waist-high railing enclosing three desks. A frosted glass door led away to inner offices. This splintered room was tastefully decorated with Wanted posters and a calendar displaying a lady in a gaping black lace negligee. I thought her proportions highly improbable. She may have been one of those life-size inflatable rubber dolls Japanese sailors take along on lengthy cruises.

  From somewhere beneath my feet, a guy was singing—sort of. He was bellowing, “Oh Dolly, oh Dolly, how you can love.” That’s all. Over and over. “Oh Dolly, oh Dolly, how you can love.” From this, I deduced that the drunk tank was in the basement.

  “Hello?” I called. “Anyone home?”

  No answer. One of these days, some smart, big-city gonnif was going to drop by and steal the Coburn police station.

  “Hello?” I yelled again, louder. Same result: none.

  I pushed open the railing gate, went over to the frosted glass door, opened that, stepped into a narrow corridor with four doors. Three were unmarked; one bore the legend: Chief. One of the unmarked doors was open. I peeked in.

  My old friend, Constable Fred Aikens. He was sprawled in a wood swivel chair, feet parked up on the desk. His hands were clasped across his hard, little pot belly. His head was thrown back, mouth sagging, and he was fast asleep. I could hear him. It wasn’t exactly a snore. More like a regular, “Aaagh. Aaagh. Aaagh.” There was a sheaf of pornographic photos spread out on his desk blotter.

  I stared at Coburn’s first line of defense against criminal wrongdoing. I had forgotten what a nasty little toad he was, with his squinchy features and a hairline that seemed anxious to tangle with his eyebrows. I had an insane impulse. I’d very carefully, very quietly tiptoe into the office and very slowly, very easily slide his service revolver from his holster. Then I’d tiptoe from the room, from the building, and drive back to the Coburn Inn where I’d finish the vodka while laughing my head off as I thought of Fred Aikens explaining to the Chief Constable how he happened to lose his gun.

  I didn’t do it, of course. Instead, I went back to the main room. I slammed the gate of the railing a few times, and I really screamed, “Hello? Hello? Anyone here?”

  That did the trick. In a few minutes Aiken came strolling out, uniform cap squared away, tunic smoothed down, every inch the alert police officer.

  “Todd,” he said. “No need to bellow. How you doing?”

  “Okay,” I said. “How you doing?”

  “Quiet,” he said. “Just the way I like it. If you came to ask about those slashed tires of yours, we haven’t been able to come up with—”

  “No, no,” I said. “This is about something else. Could I please talk to you for a couple of minutes?”

  I said it very humbly. Some cops you can handle just like anyone else. Some you can manipulate better if you start out crawling. Fred Aikens was one of those.

  “Why, sure,” he said genially. “Come on into my private office where we can sit.”

  I followed him through the frosted glass door into his room. He jerked open the top desk drawer and swept the pornographic photos out of sight.

  “Evidence,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Terrible what’s going down these days.”

  “Sure is,” he said. “You park there and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  I sat in a scarred armchair alongside his desk, and gave him my best wide-eyed, sincere look.

  “I heard about Al Coburn,” I said. “That’s a hell of a thing.”

  “Ain’t it though?” he said. “You knew him?”

  Those mean, little eyes never blinked.

  “Well … sure,” I said. “Met him two or three times. Had a few drinks with him at the Coburn Inn.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “old Al liked the sauce. That’s what killed him. The nutty coot must have had a snootful. Just drove right off the bluff into the river.”

  “The bluff?”

  “A place we call Lovers’ Leap. Out of town a ways.”

  “How did you spot the truck? Someone call it in?”

  “Hell, no,” he said. “Goodfellow saw him go over. Had been tailing him, see. Coburn was driving like a maniac, all over the road, and Ronnie was trying to catch up, figuring to pull him over. Had the siren and lights going: everything. But before he could stop him, Al Coburn drives right off the edge. There’s been talk of putting a guard rail up there, but no one’s got around to it.”

  I shook my head sadly. “Hell of a thing. Where is he now? The body, I mean.”

  “Oh, he’s on ice at Markham’s funeral parlor. We’re trying to locate next of kin.”

  “You do an autopsy in cases like that?” I asked him casually.

  “Well, hell yes,” he said indignantly. “What do you think? Bobby Markham is our local coroner. He’s a good old boy.”

  “Coburn drowned?”

  “Oh sure. Lungs full of water.”

  “Was he banged up?”

  “Plenty. Listen, that’s more’n a fifty-foot drop from Lovers’ Leap. He was a mess. Head all mashed in. Well, you’d expect that. Probably hit it on the wheel or windshield when he smacked the water.”

  I didn’t say anything. He looked at me curiously. Something wary came into those hard eyes. I knew: he was wondering if he had said too much.

  “What’s your interest in this, Todd?”

  “Well, like I said, I knew the guy. So when I heard he was dead, it really shook me.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “Also,” I said, “something silly. I’m embarrassed to mention it.”

  He leaned back in his swivel chair, clasped his hands across his belly. He regarded me gravely.

  “Why, you go right ahead,” he said. “No need to be embarrassed. I hear a lot of things right here in this office, and it never gets past these walls.”

  I bet.

  “Well,” I said hesitantly, “I had a drink with Al Coburn yesterday morning. A beer or two. Then afterward, he wanted me to see where he lived. The flagpole and all.”

  “Oh yeah,” he laughed. “Old Al’s flagpole. That’s a joke.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Anyway, I own a gol
d cigarette lighter. Not very valuable. Cost maybe twenty, thirty bucks. But it’s got a sentimental value—you know?”

  “Woman give it to you?” he said, winking.

  I tried a short laugh.

  “Well … yeah. You know how it is. Anyhow, I remember using it while I was in Al Coburn’s pickup. And then, a few hours later, after I got back to the Inn, it was missing. So I figure I dropped it in Coburn’s truck. Maybe on the floor or back between the cushions. I was wondering where Coburn’s pickup is now?”

  “The truck?” he said, surprised. “Right now? Why, it’s out back in our garage. We’re holding it until everything gets straightened out on his estate and will and all. You think your gold cigarette lighter is in the truck?”

  “I figured it might be.”

  “I doubt it,” he said, staring at me. “When we went down to get Coburn out, we had to pry open the doors, and the river just swept through. Then we winched the truck out of the water. Nothing in it by then. Hell, even the back seat cushion was gone.”

  “Well,” I said haltingly, “I was hoping you’d let me take a quick look …”

  “Why not?” he said cheerily, jerking to his feet. “Never can tell, can you? Maybe your gold cigarette lighter got caught in a corner somewhere. Let’s go see.”

  “Oh, don’t bother yourself,” I said hastily. “Just tell me where it is, I’ll take a quick look and be on my way. I imagine you have to stick close to the phones and all.”

  “No bother,” he said, his mouth smiling but not his eyes. “Nothing happens in Coburn on a Sunday. Let’s go.”

  I had pushed it as far as I thought I could. So I had to follow him out of the station house, around to a corrugated steel garage. He unlocked the padlock, and we went in.

  Al Coburn’s pickup truck was a sad-looking mess. Front end crumpled, windshield starred with cracks, doors sprung, seat cushion soaked, steering column bent.

  And the glove compartment open and empty.

  “Stinks, don’t it?” Aikens said.

  “Sure does,” I said.

  I made a show of searching for a cigarette lighter. The constable leaned against the wall of the garage and watched me with iron eyes.

  I crawled out of the sodden wreck, rubbing my palms.

  “Ahh, the hell with it,” I said. “It’s not here.”

  “I told you,” he said. “Nothing’s there. The river got it all.”

  “I suppose,” I said dolefully. “Well, thanks very much for your trouble.”

  “No trouble,” he said. “I’m just sorry you didn’t find what you were looking for.”

  “Yes,” I said, “too bad. Well, I guess I’ll be on my way.”

  “Leaving Coburn soon?”

  That’s what Julie Thorndecker had asked me. And in the same hopeful tone.

  “Probably tomorrow morning,” I said.

  “Stop by and see us again. Happy to have you.”

  “Thanks. I might do just that.”

  We grinned at each other. A brace of liars.

  Nothing’s ever neat. The investigator who’s supposed to twirl a tight ball of linguine with fork and spoon usually ends up with a ragged clump with loose ends. That’s what I had: loose ends.

  I didn’t know how it was managed, but I knew Al Coburn never drove off that cliff deliberately. His truck was nudged over, or driven over with a live driver leaping out at the last second, leaving an unconscious or dead Al Coburn in the cab. An experienced medical examiner could have proved those head injuries were inflicted before drowning, but not Good Old Boy Bobby Markham.

  Maybe the glove compartment had been searched before the truck was pushed over. Maybe after it was hauled out. Or maybe the river really did sweep it clean. It didn’t make any difference. I knew I’d never see the letter Ernie Scoggins had left with Al Coburn.

  I could guess what was in the letter. I could guess at a lot of things. Loose ends. But in any kind of investigative work, you’ve got to live with that. If you’re the tidy type, take up bookkeeping. Business ledgers have to balance. Nothing balances in a criminal investigation. You never learn it all. There’s always something missing.

  I got out to Red Dog Betty’s about 3:30 in the afternoon. That crawl through Al Coburn’s death truck had affected me more than I anticipated. When I held out a hand, the fingertips vibrated like tuning forks. So I went to Betty’s, for a drink, something to eat, just to sit quietly awhile and cure the shakes.

  This time I parked as close to the entrance to the roadhouse as I could get, hoping it would discourage the Mad Tire Slasher from striking again. I hung up hat and coat, sat at the bar, ordered a vodka gimlet. I asked for Betty, but the black bartender said she wouldn’t be in until the evening.

  The barroom and dining areas had that peaceful, dimmed, hushed atmosphere of most watering places on a Sunday afternoon. No one was playing the juke. No voices were raised. The laughter was low-pitched and rueful. Everyone ruminating on their excesses of the night before. I knew that Sunday afternoon mood; you move carefully and slowly, abjure loud sounds and unseemly mirth. The ambience is almost churchlike.

  I must have been wearing my head hanging low, because I saw them for the first time when I straightened up and looked in the big, misty mirror behind the bar. Sitting in an upholstered banquette on the other side of the room were Nurse Stella Beecham, editor Agatha Binder, and the cheerleader type from the Sentinel office, Sue Ann. Miss Dimples was seated between the two big women. They looked like massive walnut bookends pressing one slim volume of fairy tales.

  If they had noticed me come in, they gave no sign. They might have been ignoring me, but it seemed more likely they were too busy with their own affairs to pay any attention to anyone else. Beecham was wearing her nurse’s uniform, without cap. Binder had a clean pair of painters’ overalls over a black turtleneck. The lollipop between them had on a pink angora sweater with a long rope of pearls. She kept nibbling on the pearls as the two gorgons kept up a running conversation across her. The older women were drinking beer from bottles, scorning their glasses. The young girl had an orange-colored concoction, with a lot of fruit and two long straws.

  I stole a glance now and then, wondering what the relationship of that trio was, and who did what to whom. About 3:45, Nurse Beecham lurched to her feet and moved out from behind the table. She smoothed down her skirt. That was one hefty bimbo. Get an injection in the rump from her, and the needle was likely to go in the right buttock and come out the left.

  She said something to the other women, bent to kiss them both. She took a plastic raincoat and hat from the rack, waved once, and was gone. I figured she was heading for Crittenden Hall, for the four-to-midnight shift.

  The moment the nurse disappeared, Agatha Binder turned slightly sideways and slid one meaty arm across Sue Ann’s shoulders. She leaned forward and whispered something in the girl’s ear. They both laughed. Chums.

  I saw Miss Dimples’ drink was getting low, and the editor was tilting her beer bottle high to drain the last few drops. I got off my barstool and went smiling toward them.

  “Hi!” I said brightly. “How are you ladies?”

  They looked up in surprise. The nubile one with some interest, Agatha Binder with something less than delight.

  “Well, well,” the editor said, “if it isn’t supersnoop. What are you doing here, Todd?”

  “Recovering,” I said. “May I buy you two a drink?”

  “I guess so,” she said slowly. “Why not?”

  “Won’t you join us?” Sue Ann piped up, and I could have kissed her.

  I moved onto the seat vacated by Stella Beecham, ignoring Binder’s frown. I signaled the waitress for another round, and offered cigarettes. We all lighted up, and chatted animatedly about the weather until the drinks arrived.

  “When are you planning on leaving Coburn?” Agatha asked. Same question. Same hopeful tone. It’s so nice to be well-liked.

  “Probably tomorrow morning.”

  “Find out
all you need to know about Thorndecker?”

  “More,” I said.

  We sampled our drinks. Sue Ann said, “Oh, wow,” and blushed. She was so fresh, so limpid and juicy, that I think if you embraced her tightly, she’d squirt mead.

  “Well, he’s quite a man, Thorndecker,” the editor said. “Very convincing.”

  “Oh yes,” I said. “Very. I’ll bet he could get away with murder.”

  She looked at me sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Figure of speech,” I said.

  She continued to stare at me. Something came into her eyes, something knowing.

  “This is yummy,” Miss Dimples said, sucking happily at her straws. Lucky straws.

  “He’s not going to get the grant, is he?” Binder demanded.

  “When is your next edition coming out?” I asked her.

  “We just closed. Next edition is next week.”

  “Then I can tell you,” I said. “No, he’s not going to get the grant. Not if I have anything to do with it, he isn’t.”

  “Well … what the hell,” she said. “I figured you’d find out.”

  “You mean you knew?”

  “Oh Christ, Todd, everyone in Coburn knows.”

  I took a deep breath, sat back, stared into the air.

  “You’re incredible,” I said. “You and everyone else in Coburn. Something like this going on under your noses, and you just shrug it off. I don’t understand you people.”

  “Sometimes I have a Tom Collins,” the creampuff giggled, “but I really like this better.”

  “You know, Todd, you’re an obnoxious bastard,” the editor said. “You come up here with your snobbish, big-city, sharper-than-thou attitude. You stick your beezer in matters that don’t concern you. And then you condemn Thorndecker because of the way his wife acts. Now I ask you: is that fair?”

  My stomach flopped over. Then I just spun away. My hand stopped halfway to my glass. I tried to slow my whirling thoughts. I had a sense of total disorientation. It took awhile. A minute or two. Then things began to harden, come into focus again. I understood: Agatha Binder and I had been talking about two different things.